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The  Crimson  Cocoanut 

And  Other  Plays 


The  Crimson  Cocoanut 

And  Other  Plays 
By  IAN  HAY  BEITH 


All  rights  reserved  under  the  International  Copyright  Act. 
Performance  forbidden  and  right  of  representation  reserved. 
Application  for  the  right  of  performing  any  of  the  plays  con- 
tained in  this  volume  whether  by  amateurs  or  by  professional 
actors  must  be  made  to  the  author's  agent,  Mr.  R.  L.  Scaife, 
in  care  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  4  Park  St.,  Boston, 
Mass.,  and  all  royalties  should  be  paid  to  him. 


BOSTON 

WALTER  H.  BAKER  &  CO. 
1913 


M2-3 


Copyright,  191 3,  by  Ian  Hay  Beith 
As  Author  and  Proprietor 

All  rights  reserved 

PLEASE  NOTICE 

The  professional  stage  rights  in  these  plays  are  strictly  re- 
served by  the  author  to  whose  agent  applications  for  its  use 
should  be  addressed.  Amateurs  may  obtain  permission  to  pro- 
duce them  privately  on  payment  of  a  fee  of  five  dollars  ($  5.00) 
for  each  performance  of  each  play,  always  in  advance.  Cor- 
respondence on  this  subject  should  be  addressed  and  all  such 
payments  made  to  R.  L.  Scaife,  care  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co.,  4  Park  St.,  Boston,  Mass. 

Attention  is  called  to  the  penalties  provided  by  law  for  any 
infringments  of  the  author's  rights,  as  follows : 

"Shc.  4966: — Any  person  publicly  performing  or  representing  any 
dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which  copyright  has  been  obtained, 
without  the  consent  of  the  proprietor  of  said  dramatic  or  musical  composi- 
tion, or  his  heirs  and  assigns,  shall  be  liable  for  damages  therefor,  such 
damages  in  all  cases  to  be  assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less  than  one  hundred 
dollars  for  the  first  and  fifty  dollars  for  every  subsequent  performance,  as 
to  the  court  shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance  and  rep- 
resentation be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or  persons  shall  be  guilty 
of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  conviction  be  imprisoned  for  a  period  not 
exceeding  one  year." — U.  S.  Revised  Statutes,  Title  bo,  Chap.  3. 


Contents 

PAGE 

The  Crimson  Cocoanut  ....         7 
An  Absurdity  in  One  Act 

A  Late  Delivery 49 

A  Little  Play  in  Three  Episodes 

The  Missing  Card 95 

A  Comedietta  in  One  Act 


355498 


The  Crimson  Cocoanut 
An  Absurdity  in  One  Act 


The  Crimson  Cocoanut 


CHARACTERS 

Nitro  Gliserinski,  an  anarchist. 

Madame  Gliserinski. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 

Nancy  Jabstick,  his  daughter. 

Jack  Pincher,  of  Scotland  Yard. 

Robert,  waiter  at  Spaghetti  s. 

Scene.— Spaghetti's  restaurant,  Soho. 


The  Crimson  Cocoanut 


SCENE. — A  Soho  Restaurant.  E.  a  kitchen- 
lift  and  speaking-tube.  R.  u.  E  door.  c. 
entrance,  with  hat-stand,  etc.  L.  a  sofa  and 
sideboard.  Two  restaurant  tables,  with 
dingy  cloths  and  silver,  R.  c.  and  L.  c. 
Three  chairs  at  each  table.  On  the  walls 
the  usual  restaurant  advertisements,  etc. 
Glasses  and  bottles  on  sideboard,  with  siphon 
and  bread-basket.  Cake-stand  (wicker)  by 
entrance  c. 

Robert,  the  waiter,  is  asleep  on  sofa,  com- 
pletely covered  by  a  newspaper  except  for  his 
feet,  which  project  toward  audience. 

Enter  mysteriously,  0..  Jack  Pincher.  He 
wears  a  rather  obvious  false  nose.  He  looks 
round  cautiously,  takes  off  his  nose,  and 
tiptoes  about,  peeping  under  tables,  etc.,  ad 
lib.  Once  Eobert  stirs  and  grunts  under 
the  newspaper.  Piwcher  claps  on  his  nose 
and  drops  into  a  chair  at  one  of  the  tables, 
trying  to  look  like  a  customer.     Robert 


IO  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

makes  no  further  movement,  and  PlNCHER 
continues  to  investigate,  listening  down 
speaking-tube,  etc.  Finally,  after  peeping 
under  the  newspaper  at  Robert,  he  sits 
down  R.  c,  and  writes  report  in  note-book, 
reading  aloud. 

PlNCHER. 

[Reading.']  "  In  accordance  with  instruc- 
tions, I  visited  Spaghetti's  Restaurant,  Soho,  at 
2 :  15  p.  M.,  on  Thursday,  the  17th  inst.,  in  dis- 
guise. The  restaurant  was  empty,  and  the 
waiter  was  asleep  on  a  sofa.  I  searched  the 
premises  thoroughly,  but  could  find  no  suspi- 
cious-looking package  or  parcel  which  could  be 
said  to  answer  the  description  supplied  to  me 
from  headquarters."  There,  there's  nothing 
pleases  the  authorities  like  a  full  report,  espe- 
cially when  there  is  nothing  in  it !  Well,  I  must 
be  off.  [  Writes.']  "  At  2 :  25  I  withdrew  from 
the  restaurant  to  the  street,  where  I  took  up  a 

favorable     position,     for    the    purpose " 

Hallo,  there's  a  door  there  !  I  may  as  well  see 
what's  behind  it.  [Crosses  R.,  opens  door,  and 
looks.]  A  passage!  H'm!  I  haven't  got  a 
search  warrant,  but  as  everybody  seems  to  be 
asleep,  I  may  as  well  seize  the  opportunity.  I 
may  find  what  I'm  after.  [Exit,  R. 

[Pause.     Enter  Mr.  Jabstick   and  his 
daughter,  Nancy,  c.    Mr.  Jabstick 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  1 1 

is  a  choleric  old  gentleman  with  a  very 
red  face.  He  is  in  a  bad  temper,  it 
being  long  past  his  luncheon  hour. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
Come  along,  Nancy,  come  along,  come  along  ! 
Don't  be  all  day.  I  want  my  lunch,  my  lunch, 
my  lunch  /  Do  you  hear  ?  I'm  sick  and  tired 
of  standing  outside  shops  having  my  toes  trod- 
den on,  while  you  are  wasting  my  money  in- 
side.    Come  along,  come  along,  come  along  ! 

[lie  thrusts  his  umbrella  into  the  cake- 
stand  by  the  door  and  stumps  down  to 
table  L.  c,  where  he  sits  facing  R. 

Nancy. 
[Coming  down;  she  has  been  arranging  her 
hat  at  a  mirror  on  the  wall.']     Very  well,  dad. 
Take  off  your  hat  and  ring  for  the  waiter. 

[She  sits  r.  of  the  table.  Mr.  Jabstick 
takes  off  his  hat  and  absently  feels 
about  for  somewhere  to  put  it,  while  he 
reads  the  menu.  He  ultimately  hangs 
it  on  Robert's  foot,  which  is  project- 
ing from  the  sofa  behind  him.  Then  he 
rings  the  bell  on  tlie  table  furiously . 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
Waiter,    waiter,    waiter !     What   a    place ! 
What  a  hole!     Not  a  soul!     Waiter,  waiter, 
waiter  I 


12  THE  CRIMSON  COCO  AN  [/T 

Rancy. 
{Stopping    him.']      Father,    what    a    noise! 
Give  theui  a  chance. 

[Robert  shakes  off  his  newspaper  and 
sits  up.  He  is  middle-aged  and  seedy- 
looking,  evidently  with  a  profound 
contempt  for  his  calling  and  his  cus- 
tomers. After  regarding  Mr.  Jab- 
stick's  hat  disapprovingly,  he  puts  it 
on  floor  to  L.  of  his  chair.  Then  he 
leans  forward  and  answers  mourn- 
fully, right  in  Jabsttck's  ear. 

Robert. 
Comin',  sir ! 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
[Jumping. ~\     Ooh  !   What's  that  ?  Confound 
it !     What  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  doing  that  ? 

Robert. 
Beg  pardon,   sir,  I'm  sure.     I  didn't  know 
you  were  nervous.        [Slaps  table  with  napkin. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
Don't  do  that ! 

Robert. 
Certainly,  sir.  [Blows  crumbs  off  table. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
[Roaring.]     And,  confound  it,  don't  do  that ! 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  1 3 

KOBERT. 
Very  good,  sir.     What  can  I  get  you  ? 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
Lunch ! 

Nancy. 
Something  nice,  waiter ! 

Robert. 
Something  nice,  miss?     Something  ni 


You  'aven't  bin  'ere  before,  I  suppose  ?     [She 
shakes  her  head.]     No,  I  thought  not. 

Nancy. 
What  have  you  got  ? 

Eobert. 
[Taking  up  menu.']     Rognons  saute,  Fillets 
de  veau,  Vol-au-vent  &,  la  jardiniere,  Escalopes 
de [All  pronounced  as  spelled. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 

Haven't  you  got  any  English  dishes  ? 

Robert. 

Tripe — ninepence ! 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
Ugh! 

Nancy. 
Got  any  oysters  ? 


14  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

KOBERT. 

Yes,  sir — miss  ! 

Nancy. 
Are  they  fresh  ? 

Kobert. 
Well,  they  ought  to  be  gittin'  a  bit  fresh  by 
this  time. 

Nancy. 
How  long  have  you  had  them  ? 

Eobert. 
I  couldn't  say,  miss.    I've  only  been  'ere 
seven  years. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
{Pointing  to  menu.]     I'll  have  fillet  of  beef. 

Kobert. 
I'm  sorry,  sir,  fillet  of  beef  is  off. 

[Marks  with  pencil  in  menu. 

Nancy  and  Mr.  Jabstick. 
Off? 

EOBERT. 

Yes.  It  fell  off  the  kitchen  dresser  this 
mornin',  and  by  the  time  the  cook  got  it  away 
from  the  cat  it  simply  couldn't  be  served  up  be- 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  1 5 

fore  any  lady  or  gentleman.     You'll  find   it 

lower    down    now,     there [Pointing.] 

"  Shepherd's  pie,  fourpence."     Shall  I  get  you 
some,  sir  ? 

Me.  Jabstick. 
No !     [Looks  at  menu.]     I'll  have  chops. 

KOBERT. 


Yessir ! 
So  will  I. 


Nancy. 


EOBERT. 

Yes,  miss.  [Goes  to  speaking-tube.]  Cook! 
Are  you  there,  dear  ?  'Ow  are  you  ?  Chops 
two,  baked  'taters  two.  [Comes  back  L.  and 
deals  out  bread,  serviettes,  etc.]  What  will  you 
take  to  drink,  sir  ?  You'll  need  something,  I 
can  tell  you. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
What  do  you  mean  ? 

Kobert. 
You'll  see  what  I  mean,  sir,  when  you  get 
your  chop.     What  will  you  take  ? 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
Glass  of  claret. 


16  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

Nancy. 
And  I'll  take  some  soda  water,  waiter. 

Eobert. 
Yes,  miss.     [Goes  R.  to  sideboard  and  returns 
with  bottle,  siphon  and  glasses.] 

{Enter  Pincher,  r. 

PlNCHER. 

No,  there's  nothing  there  but  an  empty  room. 
Hallo!  What?  Nancy  and  her  father  ?  {Hur- 
riedly slips  on  nose.]  Just  as  well  I  am  dis- 
guised, or  he'd  recognize  me,  and  think  I  had 
come  here  after  her.  [Sits  at  table  R.  a]  All 
the  same,  this  is  too  good  a  chance  to  throw 
away.  Perhaps  I  can  kill  two  birds  with  one 
stone.     Waiter,  waiter ! 

Eobert. 

^  [  Who    is  filling    Nancy's  glass  from,  the 
sipJwn.]     Comin',  sir ! 

[Puts  down  siphon,  after  freely  sprin- 
kling Mr.  Jabstick,  and  comes  R. 

Pincher. 
What  can  you  give  me  to  eat  ? 

Eobert. 
[Handing  him  the  menu.]     Shepherd's  pie, 
fourpence. 

[Goes  to  lift  and  gets  dish  of  potatoes. 


THE  CRIMSON  COCO  A  NUT  iy 

Nancy. 
Waiter ! 

BOBERT. 

Comin',  miss !  [Crosses  L. 

Nancy. 
Waiter,  what  is  this  ? 

[Holding  out  soda-water. 

Robert. 
That's  threepence  a  glass,  miss.     If  you  want 
it  fizzy  you  must  pay  fourpence. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
[Furiously.]     Look  at  this,  waiter,  look  at 
this !     What  is  it,  what  is  it — in  my  glass  ? 

Robert. 
[Taking  glass.]     It's  only  a  fly,  sir.     It'll  do 
you  no  'arm :  it's  quite  dead.     Shall  I  take  it 
out  for  you  ? 

[Inserts  finger  and  thumb  into  glass. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
[Starting  up.]    Take  your  fingers  out  of  that 
glass,  at  once,  at  once,  at  once  !    [Puts  his  foot 
tnto    his   own  hat.]     Confound   and   dash   it ! 

What  the [Stamps   across   L.   trying  to 

shake  off  the  hat,  and  finally  sits  at  table  again, 


1 8  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

on  chair  behind.     He  picks  the  hat  off  his  f oof] 
Look  at  my  hat !     Look  at  it !    Look  at  it ! 

Kobert. 
Yessir.     Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  you're  sitting 
on    the    potatoes.     Comin',   sir!     [Goes  R.   to 
Pincher,  leaving  Nancy  to  pacify  her  father. 
To  Pincher.]    Did  you  call,  sir  ? 

Pincher. 
No. 

EOBERT. 

Well,  would  you  mind  orderin'  something  ? 
I  don't  want  to  go  over  there  [indicating  Mr. 
Jabstick]  at  present. 

Pincher. 

Well,  get  me  a  plate  of  beef  and  a  pint  of 
beer. 

Eobert. 
Yessir.  [Goes  to  tube.]  Cook !  Beef  one, 
swipes  one.  What  ?  Chops  comin'  up  ?  Eight ! 
[Takes  chops  out  of  lift,  and  crosses  L.]  Your 
chops,  sir !  You've  never  seen  chops  done  like 
that  before,  I'll  be  bound. 

[Takes   off  cover.    Mr.  Jabstick   in- 
spects them  doubtfully. 

Pincher. 
Waiter ! 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  10, 

Robert. 
Comin',  sir. 

[Puts  cover  of  chops  on  Mr.  Jabstick's 
upturned  fist ;  crosses  R. 

PlNCHER. 

Is  my  lunch  coming  ? 

Robert. 
I'll  see,  sir.     [Goes  to  lift,  and  toings  beer 
and  beef.]     Yes,  sir,  here  it  is. 

Pincher. 
Can  you  give  me  a  piece  of  paper  ? 

Robert. 
What  for  ?    To  wrap  your  dinner  up  in  ? 
You  needn't  be  shy  about  leavin'  it  on  your 
plate.    We're  quite  used  to  it  'ere.    We  shan't 
be  offended. 

Pincher. 
No,  no.    To  write  on. 

Robert. 
Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  Now,  let  me 
think.  [Looks  round.]  Ah !  [Goes  to  tube.] 
Cook  1  What  became  o'  that  white  paper  the 
butter  came  in  this  morning  ?  What  ?  Oh, 
you  are  a  wasteful  girl!  Why  can't  you  use 
a  transformation,  or  Hinde's  curlers?     [Puts 


20  THE  CRIMSON  C0C0ANUT 

down  tube.]  That's  no  good.  Now — ah  !  [Tears 
bill-check  off  booh  and  hands  it  to  Pincher.] 
There,  sir !  [Goes  back  to  tube.]  Well,  Cook, 
'ow  are  you  gettin'  on,  dear  ?  No,  not  much 
doin'  'ere.  'Ow  many  people  ?  There's  a  young 
sprig  o'  parsley  at  one  table,  and  a  little  peach 
and  a  over-ripe  tomater  at  the  other.  Well,  as 
I  was  tellin'  yer  this  mornin',  there's  an  adver- 
tisement in  the  paper [Turns  his  back  to 

the  audience  and  becomes  inaudible.] 

[PlNCHER  has  finished  scribbling  his 
note.  He  surreptitiously  hands  it  to 
Nancy.  She  reads  it  below  level  of 
table,  and  turns  to  him.  lie  takes  off 
his  nose  for  a  moment,  and  smiles,  etc. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
[Suddenly.]     Waiter !  [All  start. 

KOBERT. 

Yessir ! 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
Is  there  a  hat  shop  near  here  ? 

Eobert. 
Yes,  sir,  about  two  streets  away,  sir. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
[Getting  up .]     Confound  it!     How  am  I  to 
walk  down  two  streets  with  this  on  my  head  ? 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOA  NUT  21 

EOBERT. 
I  don't  know,  sir.     You  might  go  without  it 
altogether,  and  pretend  you  belong  to  the  No 
'At  Brigade,  sir. 

[Mr.    Jabqtick    throws  down  his  hat 
furiously. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
Gurrh !  [Goes  toward  door,  and  turns.]  Back 
directly,  Nancy.  [To  Kobert.]  You  miser- 
able idiot !  I  shall  knock  the  price  of  a  new 
hat  off  your  bill,  sir!  [Seizes  his  umbrella, 
which  brings  with  it  the  cake-stand,    business.] 

What  on  earth ■ !     What  the !     Look 

at  this  infernal  umbrella-stand  of  yours,  sir ! 
Look  at  it ! 

[Hushes  out,  still  struggling  with  it. 

Kobert. 
[Running    after    him.]     Beg    pardon,    sir; 
that's   not   a   umbrella-stand.     It's    the   cake- 
stand,  sir !  [Exit  c,  hastily. 
[Pincher  rushes  across  l.  and  sits  down 
by  Nancy.     They  clasp  hands. 

Pincher. 
My  dearest  Nancy ! 

Nancy. 
Jack  !     What  are  you  doing  here  ?    And  in 
that  get-up! 


22  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

PlNCHER. 

I'm  here  on  business.  A  red-hot  scent,  too  1 
We  got  word  at  Scotland  Yard  this  morning 
that  a  noted  female  anarchist,  Madame  Gliser- 
insM,  landed  in  London  yesterday.  She  brought 
with  her  a  new  and  terrible  infernal  ma- 
chine   

Nancy. 
A  bomb — oh ! 

Pincher. 
Yes.  Her  husband,  Nitro  Gliserinski,  is 
awaiting  her  here  in  Soho.  She  has  been  to 
Kussia  to  fetch  the  bomb,  as  he  dare  not  go 
there  himself.  She  will  hand  it  over  to  him, 
and  it  is  ieared  that  they  will  then  make  an 
attempt  to  blow  up  the  Bank  of  England  ! 

Nancy. 
Oh,  Jack,  how  awful !    It  will  rain  sover- 
eigns for  days. 

PlNCHER. 

We  have  been  informed  that  this  precious 
pair  will  probably  meet  here.  The  proprietor 
of  the  place  is  an  old  friend  of  theirs,  and  is 
well  known  to  the  police.  We  had  him  quietly 
arrested  this  morning,  without  any  fuss ;  and 
that  doddering  old  waiter  is  in  sole  charge  of 
the  establishment,  though  he  doesn't  know  it ! 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  23 

Nancy. 
Oh  !     And  will  she  give  her  husband  the 
bomb  here  f 

Pincher. 
I  expect  so.     Indeed,  she  may  have  left  it 
here  already. 

Nancy. 
{Looking  around.]     What  will  it  be  like  ? 

PlNCHER. 

I  don't  know.  That's  the  difficulty.  She 
smuggled  it  through  the  Customs  all  right,  so 
it  can't  be  very  big.  But  never  mind  that. 
Fancy  meeting  you  here ! 

Nancy. 
Yes — just!     I  don't  know  what  father  will 
say  if  he  comes  back  and  finds  us  like  this ! 

Business. 

PlNCHER. 

Oh,  dear,  why  haven't  I  got  money  ?  Then 
everything  would  be  all  right. 

Nancy. 
Perhaps  you'll  get  some  some  day. 

PlNCHER. 

There's  a  reward  of  a  thousand  pounds  wait- 
ing for  anybody  who  catches  these  two  anarch- 


24  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

ists — with  their  bomb.     Your  dad  would  give 
his  consent  if  I  got  that,  I  suppose  ? 

Nancy. 
I  should  think  so!    Oh,  Jack,  catch  them, 
quick ! 

[Enter  Eobert,  c.     lie  observes  them, 
and  hurries  R.  to  speaking-tube. 

PlNCHER. 

Eather !    We  could  set  up  house  on  a  thou- 
sand pounds,  couldn't  we  ? 

Nancy. 
We  could  set  up  two  !    [Affectionately^    Oh, 
Jack ! 

Pincher. 
Oh,  Nancy ! 

[Takes  off  his  nose.     lie  is  about  to  kiss 
her. 

Eobert. 
[Down  tube.]     Cook,  wedding-cake  for  two  ! 

Nancy. 
Oh! 

PlNCHER. 

Look  here !  [They  start  tip. 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  2$ 

KOBERT. 
[Coming  down.]  Don't  mind  me,  miss.  I'm 
that  way  myself.  I've  bin  courting  Cook  'ere 
for  a  matter  of  seven  years  now.  It's  slow 
work,  though.  The  difficulty  is,  we  don't  see 
much  of  each  other.  I  'ave  to  do  it  all  down 
the  speakin'-tube  there  ;  and,  you  see,  when  I'm 
makin'  love  to  her  one  minute  and  orderin' 
kidney-beans  the  next,  things  get  a  bit  mixed. 
Why,  the  other  day,  when  business  was  a  bit 
slack,  and  I  'ad  'alf-an-hour  to  spare,  I  tried  to 
recite  to  'er  a  bit  o'  poetry  I'd  written  about 
'er.  I  got  'old  o'  the  tube  and  whistled,  and 
when  she'd  finished  blamin'  me  for  what  she'd 
dropped — she  usually  drops  somethink  every 
time  I  whistle  down — I  recited  the  poetry.  It 
was  a  very  pretty  little  thing.  It  ended  up 
something  like  this : 

"  My  boast-in-chief,  and  my  sole  pride,  are  you ! " 

Like  that.!,  JN ell,  p'r'aps  I  didn't  say  it  clear 
enbifgn/out  in  about  two  minutes  up  comes 
the,  plate  o'  roast  beef,  and  a  sole,  fried,  for 
£\£o!  '.-'  [Goes  up. 

rV  PlNCHER. 

tsWell,  I  can*t-wait  any  longer.  Come  along 
xvi%.  me,  Nancy,  and  we'll  find  your  father. 
Waiter!    '      \'\ 


26  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

EOBERT. 

Yessir ! 

PlNCHER. 

I  shall  be  back  presently.  Just  keep  your 
eyes  open,  and  let  me  know  if  you  see  any  sus- 
picious characters  about.     My  card ! 

{Hands  card  and  exits  with  Nancy,  c. 

EOBERT. 

[Reading.]  Mr.  John  Pincher,  C.  I.  D., 
Scotland  Yard.  I  wonder  what  C.  I.  D.  means  ? 
[Tries  to  drink  out  of  Pincher's  tankard,  out 
finds  it  empty. ~]  "  Clean  it  dry !  "  I  should 
think.  [Crosses  L.  and  pours  remains  of 'Mr. 
Jabstick's  wine  back  i?i  bottle,  clears  table,  etc.'] 
Well,  now  I've  got  a  little  breathin'-space, 
we  will  resume  our;  conversation.  [Takes  up 
newspaper.]  Now  where's  that  advertisement  ? 
[Goes  to  tube.]  Cookie !  'Ello,  dear,  'ow  are 
you?  What?  Startled  you  again?  'Ow 
many  plates  ?  Six — and  a  teacup !  You  are 
an  unlucky  girl.  These  breakages  do  cut  into 
one's  bankin'  account.  I'll  call  you  more  gently 
next  time.  Now,  listen:  'ere's  the  advertise- 
ment. [Beads.]  "  To  let,  model  country  inn, 
in  Surrey.  No  other  licensed  house  within 
three  miles.  Would  suit  "—listen  to  this,  Cookie 
— "  would  suit  married  couple,  who  desire  a  quiet 
but  re — remunerative  little  business.  Eent  to 
be  agreed  upon.     Immediate  possession,  with 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  2? 

good- will,  fixtures,  and  present  stock  of  choice 
wines  and  spirits,  on  payment  of  five  hundred 
pounds."  Think  of  that !  All  that  for  a  paltry 
five  hundred !  What  ?  No,  I  know  we  'aven't, 
but  there's  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  get  it  in 
time.  'Ow  much  'ave  you  got  laid  by  now  ? 
Oh— that  all  ?  Me  ?  Well,  I  couldn't  say  to 
a  penny  or  so,  and  of  course  it's  not  easy  savin', 
you  know.  There's  the  cost  of  livin',  and  food 
is  very  dear.  Of  course  I  couldn't  take  my 
meals    'ere.     Still,   I    am  full  of  'ope.     'Ope 

springs    eternal What?    No,   dear,   not 

soup — 'ope !  [To  himself.']  I'm  afraid  she's 
not  poetical.  Oh,  we'll  save  up,  never  fear! 
Why,  a  gentleman  gave  me  fourpence  yester- 
day. 'E  came  back  five  minutes  later  to  bor- 
row a  penny  of  it  for  his  'bus-fare ;  but  still, 
that  leaves  threepence.  Don't  you  be  down- 
hearted. Now  look  'ere,  dear,  I'll  just  drop  the 
paper  down  the  lift.  [He  puts  his  head  in  and 
his  voice  is  muffled.]  Third  page,  top  of  sec- 
ond column,  and  just  tell  me  what  you  think 

[Enter  furtively,  c,  Nitro  Gliserin- 
SKI.  He  looks  very  foreign*  and  a  des- 
perate ruffian.  lie  speaks  with  a 
strong  accent. 

Gliseeinski. 

Yes,  zis  is  the  place.     Where  is  the  proprie- 
tor?   Zey    say    he  is  perfectly  trustworthy. 


28  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

[Robert  comes  out  of  lift,  and  begins  to  arrange 
things  on  the  table,  R.  c,  humming.]  Zis  must 
be  the  man.  I  will  gif  him  the  sign.  Pst ! 
[Robert  turns.']    Attendez,  done ! 

[Makes  mysterious  signs. 

Robert.  / 
[Dropping  plates.]  A-a-a-h !  [Bushes  to  the 
other  table  and  helps  himself  to  soda  water  fe- 
verishly.] Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear !  'Ow  careless  of 
them!  They  must  have  left  the  'Ippodrome 
door  open.  [Gliserinski  continues  to  make 
signs.]  I  suppose  I  must  humor  it.  [Makes 
signs  hi  return.  Business.]  Now,  wot  can  I 
get  for  you,  sir  ? 

Gliserinski. 
Ha !    Ben  you  do  not  know  vat  I  vant  ? 

Robert. 
[Surveying  him.]     Well,  of  course,  I  can  see 
one  thing  you  want,  but  I'm  afraid  you  can't 
'ave  it  'ere.     I  don't  think  there's  enough  hot 
water. 

Gliserinski. 

[Seizing  him  by  the  wrist.]  Listen  !  [Takes 
him  down  l.]  A  lady  will  come  here  pres- 
ently. 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  29 

Robert. 
{Coldly. ~\     Oh!     You'll  excuse  me  mention- 
ing the  fact,  but  we  'ave  'ad  ladies  'ere  before. 

Gliserinski. 
But  zis  lady  has  never  been  here  before. 

Eobert. 
No,  and  I  don't  suppose  she'll  ever  come 
again.     Very  few  people  do. 

Gliserinski. 
Now,  listen.     She  will  gif  you  ze  sign. 

Robert. 
Like  wot  you  gave  me  ? 

Gliserinski. 
Yes. 

Robert. 
Oh !     And  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Gliserinski. 
You  will  gif  ze  countersign. 

Robert. 

Oh !     And  what's  that  ? 

Gliserinski. 
Like  zis !     [Business.] 


30  THE  CRIMSON  C0C0ANUT 

ROBERT. 

And  what  do  I  do  then  ? 

Gliserinski. 
You  say :  "  Haf  you  any  cocoanuts  ?  " 

[Robert    looks     quite     dumbfounded. 
Goes  and  drinks  more  soda. 

Robert. 
'Ave  you  any  wot  f 

Gliserinski. 
Say :  "  Haf  you  any  cocoanuts  ?  " 

Robert. 
But  I  don't  want  a  cocoanut. 

Gliserinski. 
Ah,  but  I  do — one  cocoanut ! 

Robert. 
Oh !     [Reflectively.']     Feeling  'ungry,  I  sup- 
pose? 

Gliserinski. 
For  zis  cocoanut — yes  ! 

Robert. 
Couldn't  you  get  your  friends  to  throw  one 
down  to  you  ? 


THE  CRIMSON  COCO  A  NUT  3 1 

Gliserinski. 
Ahpbut  zis  is  a  special  cocoanut.  She  will 
tell  you  all.  It  is  for  the  cause.  Liberty! 
Freedom!  Down  with  all  ze  tyrants!  [Goes 
up.]  Farewell,  at  present !  I  thank  you  von 
tousand  times — [shakes  both  hands]  my  brozzer ! 

[Exit  excitedly ',  c. 

ROBERT. 

'Ere,  'old  on,  ole  man  !  I'm  not  your  brother. 
I  don't  live  on  cocoanuts.  The  idea !  [Goes  to 
tube.]  Cook,  haf  you  got  any  cocoanuts? 
[Laughs.]  Eh  ?  What  'ave  you  dropped  this 
time  ?  The  soup  tureen  ?  Never  mind !  Per- 
haps the  governor  won't  notice.  I  don't  know 
where  he  is.     He's  bin  out  all  day.     There's 

such    a    funny    little    cove  just [Miter 

Madame  Gliserinski,  c.  She  is  handsome 
and  fierce-looking,  and  carries  a  bandbox.  She 
crosses  r.,  and  taps  Robert  on  the  shoulder. 
He  turns.]  Oh,  lor !  Another  of  'em.  [She 
gives  him  the  sign.  He  gives  the  countersign. 
Business.]  Beg  your  pardon,  miss,  but  I  'ave 
a  message  for  you.  'Ave  you  got  any  cocoa- 
nuts? 

Mme.  Gliserinski. 

Ha  !  [Looks  around.]  Sh  !  [Takes  him  by 
the  wrist  and  leads  him  down  L.]     I  haf  it  here. 

[Shows  bandbox. 


32  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

EOBEET. 
It  must  be  a  big  one. 

Mme.  Gliserinski. 
No,  but  it  has  to  be  carefully  packed,  or  else 
— whoof ! 

Kobert. 
[Aside.']     She's  worse  than  the  other  one. 
[Aloud.]     Won't  you  sit  down,  miss  ?    You'll 
feel  better  in  a  minute.     'Ave  a  milk-and-soda  ? 

Mme.  Gliserinski. 
[Tragically.]     I  cannot  rest  until  the  deed  is 
done.     Look  !     [  Unfastens  bandbox.]     You  see 
zat  ?  [Produces  a  cocoanut. 

KOBERT. 

I  do.     I  suppose  you  got  it  on  Bank  'Oliday. 
You're  one  of  the  lucky  ones. 

Mme.  Gliserinski. 

[Impressively.]     Yat  is  dat  ? 

KOBERT. 

Well,  I  should  say  it  was  a  cocoanut. 

Mme.  Gliserinski. 
No,  no.     It  is  imitation.     Yat  you  call — arti- 
ficial ! 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  33 

EOBERT. 
Oh,  I  see — made  in  Germany !     But  I  sup- 
pose you  can  eat  it  ? 

Mme.  Gliserhstski. 
Eat  ?    No,  no.    [Impressively^    It  is  a  bomb ! 

Eobert. 
[Smiling  indulgently.']     Indeed?    You  sur- 
prise me.     [Aside.]     Balmy ! 

Mme.  Gliserinski. 
You  see  zat  small  blue  mark  there  ? 

[Points. 

Eobert. 
Yes. 

Mme.  Gliserijstski. 
Zat  is  ze  trigger.     If  you  press  that  you  set 
the  clockwork  in  motion.     It  goes  tick,  tick, 
tick,  inside;    and    in   ten   minutes  exactly  it 
goes  whoof  !  bang !  and  where  are  you  ? 

[Puts  cocoanut  bach  in  box. 

Eobert. 
That  would  depend  on  the  life  I'd  led,  miss. 
But  I'm  to  give  this  to  the  gentleman  when  he 
comes  back,  am  I  ?  [Takes  box. 


34  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

Mme.  Gliserinski. 
Yes.  But  dere  is  one  ting  more.  The  com- 
position of  zis  bomb  is  a  secret.  But,  when  the 
machinery  is  set  in  motion,  and  the  chemicals 
inside  work  out  toward  ze  surface,  ze  cocoanut 
begins  to  turn  a  different  color — pink ;  and 
joost  before  the  explosion  it  is  bright  crimson ! 
So  if  you  should  effer  see  it  like  dat,  you  will 
run  away  quick ! 

Kobert. 
I'll  make  a  point  of  it,  miss. 

Mme.  Gliserinski. 
Now  I  go  to  seek  my  husband.  I  may  do  so 
now,  for  they  will  find  nothing  in  my  posses- 
sion if  I  am  arrested.  Meanwhile,  you  will 
keep  zis  safe.  Farewell!  You  may  kiss  my 
'and.  [Robert  takes  her  hand,  and  after 
briefly  inspecting  it,  shakes  it.]  Farewell,  my 
brother  !  [Exit,  c. 

EOBERT. 

Nice  lot  o'  new  relations  I'm  makin'.  [Re- 
garding box.]  Well,  what  am  I  to  do  with 
this,  I  wonder.  I  suppose  the  other  loony  will 
be  back  here  in  a  minute.  I  wonder  if  he'll 
think  it's  a  bomb  too.  [Laughs  rather  mourn- 
fully^   Very  amusin' !     Ohrdear;-I~,aven't  'ad 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  35 

a  'earty  laugh  since  Cook  accepted  me.    I  must 
tell  'er  about  this.     [Goes  R.] 

[Miter  Pincher  and  Nancy,  c. 

PlNCHER. 

Hallo,  waiter  !  Here  we  are  again.  What's 
amusing  you  ?    And  what's  this  ? 

[Slaps  box  with  his  stick. 

EOBERT. 

You've  missed  a  treat,  sir.  I've  just  'ad  a 
visit  from  a  pore  lady  what's  weak  in  the  'ead 
— jackdaws  in  the  clock-tower !  [Taps  fore- 
head.] She  gave  me  this  box  to  keep  for  a 
friend  of  hers.  I've  seen  what's  inside.  What 
do  you  think  it  is  ? 

Nancy. 
A  new  hat. 

Robert. 
No,  miss.     You'd  never  guess.     A  cocoanut. 

Both. 

A  cocoanut  ? 

Robert. 
Yes.     And  the  ridiculous  part  of  it  is  that 
the  poor  creature  thinks  it  is  a  bomb  ! 

[Laughs  mournfully  and  slaps  box. 


36  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

Both. 
A  bomb  ?  [Pincher  gets  agitated. 

Eobert. 
Yes.  She  'ad  it  all  cut  and  dried,  I  assure 
you.  If  you  pressed  a  certain  mark  at  one 
end,  the  machinery  would  begin  to  tick;  and 
in  ten  minutes  the  whole  thing  would  blow  to 
smithereens.  [Laughs  gently.]  Yery  humor- 
ous !     [Drops  box.]     Woa,  Emma  ! 

Pincher. 
Here,  for  goodness'  sake  be  careful !    It  may 
be  a  bomb  after  all. 

Eobert. 
Oh,  dear  no,  sir.  The  poor  lady  was  very 
bad.  She  'ad  another  cock-and-bull  story  about 
it.  Said  that  when  the  machinery  inside  started 
to  tick  the  cocoanut  would  turn  pink,  and  just 
before  explodin'  it  would  be  bright  crimson. 

Nancy. 
How  ridiculous ! 

Eobert. 
Yes,  isn't  it,  miss  ?    Oh,  I  'ad  a  'earty  laugh, 
I  assure  you.     [To  Pincher,  who  is  kneeling 
on  the  floor  listening  to  the  box.]     What's  the 
matter,  sir  ? 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  37 

PlNCHER. 
I  say,  can  you  hear  anything  ? 

Robert. 
[Kneeling  too.]     Yes,  sir ;  it  seems  to  me  as 
if  I  could  'ear  a  kind  of  a  tickin1  noise,  sir. 

Nancy. 
[Bending    down    and    listening;    screams^ 
Oh !  it's  started  ! 

[All  regard  each  other  with  consternation. 

PlNCHER. 

Let's  look  at  itH 

[They  open  the  box  hastily,  and  take 
out  the  cocoanut.  It  is  quite  pink. 
Tableau. 

Eobert. 
[Handing  the  cocoanut^     Here  you  are,  sir. 

PlNCHER. 

No,  no,  it's  yours. 

Nancy. 
[Getting  up  and  running  L.]     It  will  explode 
in  a  minute.     Throw  it  away ! 

PlNCHER. 

[Starting  up.~]     No,  don't  I    It  will  blow  up 
if  you  do.     Come  along,  Nancy.     Under  the 


38  THE  CRIMSON  COCOA  NUT 

table — quick !     These    things   always   explode 
upward.     It's  our  only  chance. 

[Pincher  and  Nancy  dive  under  the 
table  L.  c. 

KOBERT. 

[  Who  has  gently  placed  the  cocoanut  on  a 
wine-glass  on  table  R.  c,  listening,  quite  calmly.'] 
It's  still  ticking,  sir.  'Ow  would  it  be  if  I 
dropped  it  in  a  bucket  of  water  ? 

PlNCHER. 

[Putting  his  head  out  from  under  cloth.'] 
Eight.     But  hurry  up  ! 

Nancy. 
[Screaming.]     Kun ! 

Eobert. 

[Going  deliberately  to  tube.]  Cook,  send  up 
a  bucket  of  water,  will  you  ?  We've  got  a 
teetotaller  just  come  in.  What  ?  Too  'eavy  ? 
Right — I'll  come  down  for  it.  [To  Pinch er.] 
I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,  sir.  [Exit,  R. 

PlNCHER. 

Here,  I  say,  take  it  with  you  !  It's  no  good ; 
he's  gone. 

[Pause.    Pincher    and  Nancy  jpeep 
from  under  table. 


the  crimson  cocoanut  39 

Nancy. 
I  wish  he'd  hurry  up. 

Pincher. 
Don't  be  alarmed.     If  he  started  the  ma- 
chinery that  time  he  dropped  the  box,  there  are 
still  three  and  a  half  minutes  to  go  before  the 
thing  blows  up. 

{Enter  Mr.  Jabstick,  a,  with  new  hat. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
[  Waving  his  hat.]  I've  got  one,  Nancy,  I've 
ot  one,  I've  got  one  !  Five  and  nine  !  Now 
et's  be  off  home.  Hallo !  Where  is  every- 
body ?  [Comes  down  and  rings  bell  on  table 
r.  c]  Waiter,  waiter,  waiter  !  [Sees  cocoanuf] 
Hallo,  what  on  earth's  this?  [Inspects  it 
through  glasses,  etc.~]     I  say,  waiter 

PlNCHER. 

[Putting  his  head  out.~\     I  beg  your  pardon, 
sir,  but  are  you  bomb-proof  ? 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
What    do    you    mean — bomb-proof  ?     And 
what  on  earth  are  you  doing 

Nancy. 
Father,  that's  a  bomb  ! 


40  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

PlNCHER. 
And  it's  timed  to  explode  in  [looks  at  watch'] 
a  minute  and  a  quarter ! 

[Me.  Jabstick  gives  a  wild  yell,  and 
dives  under  sofa  L.  Enter  Robert, 
with  bucket,  R. 

Robert. 
'Ere    we    are,     sir.      Anything    'appened? 
[Looks  round.]     No.     It's  got  a  bit  redder,  I 
think,  sir. 

Mr.  Jabstick,  Nancy  and  Pincher. 
[Putting  heads  out,  screaming."]     Hurry  up  I 

Robert. 
Yessir !     [Puts  cocoanut  in  bucket.     There  is 
soms   fizzing    and    all   is  quiet.]     There,  it's 
dead  now.     We  shall  'ave  bomb  glace  on  the 
menu  to-morrow,  I  can  see.     Excuse  me. 

[Puts  bucket  into  lift,  then  talks  down 
tube  with  back  turned.  Nancy  and 
Pincher  emerge,  and  help  Mr.  Jab- 
STiCK/n?m  under  sofa,  and  brush  him 
down,  etc. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
Now,   what's  all  this  about,  eh  ?    Ntr non- 
sense, no  nonsense,  no  nonsense  !     What  is  it  ? 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  41 

PlNCHER. 

[To  Nancy.]  Here,  you  explain.  I  have 
too  much  to  do.  [Nancy  takes  Mr.  Jabstick 
up  stage.  Crosses  R.  to  Kobert.]  Now,  you 
say  these  people  are  coming  back  ? 

Robert. 
[Putting  down  tube.]     One  of  'em  for  certain 
— probably  both,  sir. 

PlNCHER. 

When? 

Kobert. 
Immediately,  sir. 

PlNCHER. 

Then  I  have  no  time  to  lose.  I  must  run  and 
get  the  police.  If  we  catch  them  it  will  be 
worth  a  thousand  pounds  to  you  and  me. 

Kobert. 
A  thousand  pounds  ? 

PlNCHER. 

Yes.  That  is  the  reward  for  their  arrest  and 
the  discovery  of  the  bomb.  Now  if  they  come 
back  here  to  fetch  it,  can  you  keep  them  till  I 
come  back  with  the  police  ? 


42  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

KOBEET. 

I'll  keep  them  here,  sir,  if  I  have  to  poison 
'em. 

PlNCHER. 

Eight.  {Going. 

EOBERT. 

But  I  don't  want  'em  arrested  in  here,  sir. 
You  see,  the  breakages  all  go  down  to  me.  I'll 
tell  you  what.  Let  'em  come  in  and  get  the 
bomb,  and  you  and  your  pals  wait  outside  and 
catch  'em  as  they  come  out. 

PlNCHER. 

But  suppose  they  won't  come  out  ? 

Eobert. 
{Knowingly^     I'll  see  to  that,  sir ! 

{Exit  PlNCHER. 

Mr.  Jabstick. 

Waiter ! 

Kobert. 
Yessir ! 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
I  want  my  bill. 

Eobert. 
Certainly,    sir.      {Produces    bill-check    and 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  43 

writes.]     "  Chops,  two  shillings ;  greens,  four- 
pence  ;  two  glasses  o'  claret,  eightpence " 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
But  there  was  a  fly  in  one  glass  - — 

Robert. 
We  don't  charge  for  extras,  sir.     "Bread, 
twopence  ;  attendance,    sixpence  ;  soda   water, 
threepence ;  "  total,  four  and  seven,  sir. 

[Hands  bill. 
Mr.  Jabstick. 
[After  inspecting  bill.']     Try  again  ! 

Robert. 
Very  good,  sir.  [Takes  bill  and  counts  dishes 
on  table.]  I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir. 
My  mistake!  I  thought  I'd  forgotten  some- 
thing. [Picks  potato  dish  from  off  chair  and 
writes.]     "  Potatoes,  fourpence." 

Mr  Jabstick. 

[Snatching  menu.~\  Now  I've  got  you ! 
Thief,  ruffian,  swindler !  Look !  [Points.] 
Baked  potatoes,  twopence ! 

Robert. 
Yes,   sir;    but   remember  you   sat    on  'em. 
[Points.]     Mashed  potatoes,  fourpence ! 

[Enter  Nitro  Gliserinski  and  Mme. 
Gliserinski,  c. 


44  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

KOBERT. 

[To  Mr.  Jabstick.]     Sit  down  a  minute,  if 
you  want  to  see  some  fun. 

[Mr.  Jabstick  sits,  with  back  to  audi- 
ence, at  table  L.  c. ,  Nancy  beside  him. 
They  pretend  to  eat  bread,  etc. 

Gliserinski. 
[To  Eobert,  in  a  whisper.']     Ah,  my  broz- 
zer !    Is  all  well  ? 

Kobert. 
Oh,  yes,  all's  well,  thank  you  ! 

Mme.  Gliserinski. 
You  'ave  it  safe. 

Kobert. 
Quite  safe,  thank  you,  mum.  'Opin'  you  are 
the  same.  Now  sit  down  and  'ave  a  bit  of 
dinner.  [He  guides  them  to  the  table  R.  c.  They 
sit  r.  and  L.]  I've  bin  k'eepin'  the  Shepherd's 
Pie  'ot  for  you  on  purpose.  [Slaps  table  with 
napkin.  Brings  bread  from  other  table,  etc. 
The  Gliserinskis  gaze  round  eagerly ?\  There  ! 
'Ave  a  bit  of  bread  to  go  on  with.  [  Goes  R.  to 
tube.]     Cook,  soup  for  two  ! 

Gliserinski. 
Is  all  well,  do  you  think  ? 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  45 

Mme.  Gliserinski. 
Yes,  I   think   so.     I  wonder  where  he  has 
put  it. 

Gliserinski. 
In  a  safe  place,  I  am  sure.     The  chief  said 
he  was  a  most  trustworthy  fellow. 

Mme.  Gliserinski. 
[Rapturously.]     Ah,  Mtro,  think  of  to-mor- 
row ! 

Gliserinski. 

[Fervently.']    Ah,  dear  wife,  to-morrow  !    To- 
morrow the  Bank  of  England  will  be  in 

Robert. 
The   soup!     [Puts   tureen   on   table.]     'Ave 
some  pepper  with  it. 

[Gets  cruet  from  other  table,  sprinkling 
Mr.  Jabstick  as  he  does  so.  Glis- 
erinski serves  the  soup. 

Gliserinski. 
Waiter,  some  wine ! 

Robert. 
Yes,  sir.     Crimson  wine,  sir  ? 

Gliserinski  and  Mme.  Gliserinski. 
[Together.]     Eh  ? 


46  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

ROBERT. 

I  mean — red  wine,  sir  ? 

Gliserinski. 

Yes. 

[Robert  pours  out  two  glasses,  and  takes 
away  soup  plates.  lie  then  goes  to  the 
door,  c,  and  waves.  He  brings  the 
plates  for  the  next  course. 

Robert. 
You'll  enjoy  the  next  dish,  sir.     It's  some- 
thing rather  out  of  the  way. 

{Goes  L.  and  brings  covered  dish. 

Gliserinski. 
{Sipping  wine.']     My  dear  wife,  a  toast ! 

Mme.  Gliserinski. 
I  think  I  know  it.     It  is  — 

Gliserinski. 

{Raising  glass.]     The  Crimson  Cocoanut ! 

Mme.  Gliserinski. 

{Raising  hers.]     The  Crimson  Cocoanut ! 

Robert. 
{Putting  down  a  dish  between  them -and  whip- 
ping off  the  cover.]     The  Crimson  Cocoanut ! 

{The  cocoanut  is  lying  on  the  dish.     It 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT  47 

is  quite  crimson.  The  other  two  stare 
at  it  for  a  moment,  petrified,  and  then 
leap  to  their  feet. 

Mme.  Gliserinski. 
[Shrieking.]     A-a-a-ah ! 

Gliserinski. 
It's  bright  red !     Save  yourselfs  ! 

[Both  rush  out,  c.     Crash,  and  shouting 
outside.     Enter  Pincher. 

Nancy. 
[Jumping  up.]     Have  you  got  them  ? 

Pincher. 
Yes,  quite  safe.  [Shakes  hands  with  Nancy 
and  Mr.  Jabstick.  Kobert  is  at  the  lift. 
Pincher  takes  off  nose.]  And  now,  Mr.  Jab- 
stick, I  can  afford  to  come  out  of  my  shell.  Do 
you  know  me  ? 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
Bless  my  soul — Jack  Pincher!  What  on 
earth,  what  on  earth,  what  on  earth! — oh,  I 
see.  Mr.  Pincher,  did  you  put  on  that  idiotic 
thing  in  the  pursuit  of  your  profession,  sir,  or 
in  the  pursuit  of  my  daughter — eh  ? 

Pincher. 
Well,  sir,  perhaps  it  was  a  little  of  both. 
But  I  shall  get  five  hundred  pounds  reward  out 


48  THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

of  this  job.     That  will  do  to  start  housekeeping 
on.     Will  you  give  your  consent  ? 

Nancy. 
Yes,  daddy,  do  give  your  consent ! 

Mr.  Jabstick. 
Well,  I'll  think  it  over.     But  I  thought  you 
said  the  reward  was  a  thousand  pounds. 

PlNCHER. 

So  it  is.     But  five  hundred  of  it  must  go  to 
our  friend  here.        [Slaps  Kobert  on  the  back. 

Kobert. 
What— five 'undred  ?    Me?    Sure? 

Pincher. 

Certain. 

Kobert. 
[Picking  up  newspaper.']  "Immediate  pos- 
session— good-will  and  fixtures — five  hundred 
pounds  down  !  "  [Bushes  to  tube.]  Cook !  Are 
you  there  ?  Yes.  Got  any  crockery  left  ?  Put 
it  all  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and/^w^  on  it ! 
[Listens.]  That's  right !  Go  on !  I'll  pay  for 
it !    Five  hundred  pounds  !    Good  old  cocoanut ! 

CURTAIN 


A  Late  Delivery 

A  Little  Play  in  Three  Episodes 


A  Late  Delivery 


CHARACTERS 

Bill  Aymer.  Mr.  Grice. 

Tim  Rendle.  Mrs.  Grice. 

Marjorie. 


A  Late  Delivery 


SCENE. — The  dining-room  of  Aymee's  flat. 
There  is  a  doorway  in  the  centre  of  the  back 
wall,  with  a  bookcase  at  the  right  and  a 
sideboard  at  the  left  of  it.  At  the  left  of  the 
stage,  toward  the  back,  is  a  table  with  a  chair 
on  either  side  of  it.  There  is  a  fireplace  down 
at  the  right  with  a  sofa  just  above  it,  and  op- 
posite it,  at  the  extreme  left  of  the  stage, 
another  table. 

Bill  Aymer  and  Tim  Kekdle  have  been 
dining  together,  and  are  sitting  over  their 
wine.  Bill  is  thirty-five  or  so.  He  is  a 
typical  bachelor  of  the  best  sort,  a  kindly  man 
of  the  world,  slightly  reserved  in  manner, 
with  a  strong  sense  of  humor  and  its  inevita- 
v  ble  accompaniment  of  slight  melancholy.  TlM 
is  young,  not  much  over  twenty-one,  overflow- 
ing with  the  joy  of  youth,  hopelessly  senti- 
mental and  impulsive.  However,  he  is  most 
elastic  in  his  recovery  from  the  numerous  dis- 
asters in  which  these  attributes  constantly  in- 

51 


52  A  LATE  DELIVERY 

volve  him.  He  is  an  entirely  charming 
youths  quite  unspoiled  by  the  possession  of 
more  than  his  fair  share  of  popularity  among 
friends  of  both  sexes. 
BILL  is  wearing  a  dinner-jacket  and  black  tie ; 
TlM  is  immaculately  attired,  with  white  tie, 
white  waist-coat,  etc.  Both  are  smoking; 
TlM  a  cigarette.  Bill  a  pipe. 

Tim. 
[r.  of  table.']    I  say,  Bill,  pretty  sound  port, 
this — what  ? 

Bill. 

[r.  of  table,  without  moving.']     Have  some 
more. 

Tim. 
I  thank  you :  that  was  the  situation  I  was  en- 
deavoring to  lead  up  to.  [Reaching  across  for 
the  decanter,  which  is  at  Bill's  elbow.]  As  you 
are  so  insistent,  I  will  take  just  half  a  spot  more 
before  I  go.  [Helps  himself]  Chin,  chin,  old 
thing !  [Drinks.  Bill  grunts  and  continues 
to  sit  facing  the  audience,  puffing  at  his  pipe. 
Presently  Tim  puts  down  his  glass,  and  rises, 
going  toward  fireplace  r.]  I  will  now  pull  my- 
self together  and  pass  away  quietly. 

Bill. 

[Still  without  moving.]     Needn't  go  yet. 


A  LATE  DELIVERY  53 

Tim. 
Despite  your  frenzied  entreaties,  old  son,  I 
must  do  a  bunk.  There  is  wild  work  before  me 
this  night,  f  Standing  with  his  hack  to  the  fire, 
he  produces  white  gloves,  and  proceeds  to  try 
them  on.]     I  say,  Bill — ever  fallen  in  love  ? 

Bill. 
Occasionally. 

Tim. 
[Interested.]     Aha !     Recently  ? 

Bill. 
Not  of  late  years. 

Tim. 
You  began  young,  then  ? 

Bill. 

The  usual  age. 

Tim. 
When  was  that  ? 

Bill. 
My  first  children's  party. 

Tim. 
I  know.     White  socks,  blue  sash — eh  ? 

Bill. 
Correct. 


54  A   LATE  DELIVERY 

Tim. 
But  I  suppose  that  affair  never  came  to  much  ? 

Bill. 
No.     She  overdid  things. 

Tim. 
Who? 

Bill. 
The  lady. 

Tim. 
How  ? 

Bill. 
Trifle  at  supper.     She  had  to  be  taken  home 
early,  and  we  never  met  again. 

Tim. 
But,  bar  rotting,  when  did  your  first  serious 
attack  take  place  ? 

Bill. 
About  your  age. 

Tim. 
[Surprised.']     Not    till    then?     You    must 
have  been  a  bit  of  a  slow  goer. 

Bill. 

Think  so  ? 


A   LATE  DELIVERY  55 

Tim. 
[Not  noticing  the  sarcasm  of  this  remark.] 
Rather!  Why,  my  lad,  supposing  I  were  to 
tell  you  — —  [He  is  obviously  bursting  with 
some  secret  of  his  own,  but  restrains  himself 
with  an  effort.]  But  I  want  some  details  of 
your  performances.  Did  you  do  it  well,  that 
sort  of  thing  ? 

Bill. 
I  used  to  think  so  at  the  time. 

Tim. 
Tell  me  about  your  first — er — escape.    There 
have  been  escapes,  I  presume,  or  you  wouldn't 
now  be  an  old  and  crusted  bachelor. 

Bill. 

[Grimly.]     There    have    been    escapes — on 
both  sides.  [Helps  himself  to  port. 

Tim. 
Don't  talk  rot  of  that  kind,  Bill!     [With 
frank  admiration^]     Any   woman   would   be 
proud  to  marry  you.     Fool  if  she  didn't ! 

Bill. 
Thank  you  very  much  for  this  entirely  unso- 
licited testimonial.     I  catches  your  eye ! 

[Drinks. 


56  A   LATE  DELIVERY 

Tim. 
Well,  let  us  get  back  to  the  point.     I  want 
to  hear  about  Number  One — Number  Two,  if 
we  count  the  lady  who  stuck  at  trifle. 

Bill. 
It  occurred  at  a  bicycle  picnic,  by  moonlight. 
The  picnic  was  given  by  a  lady  who  possessed 
seven  daughters,  mostly  plain.  After  supper 
the  least  plain  one  and  I  strayed  into  a  church- 
yard close  by.  There  we  sat  down  on  a  tomb- 
stone. She  remarked  that  she  was  afraid  of 
ghosts. 

Tim. 
[Pointing  an  accusing  finger •.]     So  you  took 
her  hand ! 

Bill. 
I  am  not  quite  sure.     I  have  a  kind  of  idea 
she    took    mine.     Anyhow  the   junction   was 
effected. 

Tim. 
What  happened  next  ? 

Bill. 
A  dark  shadow  rose  before  us 

Tim. 
The  ghost,  I  presume. 


A  LATE  DELIVERY  $7 

Bill. 
!No — worse  !    The  girl's  mother ! 

Tim. 
[Delightedly.]     And  what  did  mother  say  ? 

Bill. 
She  said:   ""Well,  young  people,  have  you 
anything  to  tell  me  ?  " 

Tim. 

[Dropping  onto  the  sofa  and  fanning  him- 
self; faintly.]  Go  on,  go  on !  And  what  did 
you  say  ? 

Bill. 
I  said :  "I  think  my  back  tire  wants  blowing 
up.     I'll  go  and  do  it  now."     And  I  did !     I 
had  a  very  lonely  ride  home,  though. 

Tim. 
[After  a  pause.]     Had  anymore  experiences, 

Bill. 
None   that    I   care   to  talk   about,   thanks. 
[Puts  down  his  pipe,  gets  up,  and  comes  over 
to  the  fireplace.     Looking  down  on  Tim.]     And 
now,  my  son  Timothy,  get  it  off  your  chest ! 

Tim. 

[Staring.]     Get  what  off  my  chest  ? 


58  A   LATE  DELIVERY 

Bill. 

This  great  secret  of  yours.  Who  is  she? 
When  do  the  banns  go  up — eh  ? 

Tim. 

Great  Scott !  It  must  be  written  all  over  me 
if  you  can  spot  it.  Well,  I  plead  guilty.  But 
I  haven't  asked  her  yet.  The  fact  is,  I  intend 
to  do  the  big  thing  this  very  night. 

[Gets  up  and  walks  about. 

Bill. 
To-night?     [Looks   at   his   watch.]     Kather 
late,  isn't  it?    Are  you  going  to  apply  per- 
sonally, or  by  letter  ? 

Tim. 

Write  ?  My  sainted  aunt,  write  !  My  dear 
old  antediluvian  William,  do  you  think  I  could 
go  home  and  sit  down  and  write  to  her  on  such 
a  subject  as  that  f  Write,  with  a  fountain  pen, 
on  Silurian  paper  at  a  shilling  a  packet  ? 

Bill. 

[Calmly.]  If  it  takes  you  that  way,  why  not 
use  cream-laid  note  and  a  gold  nib  ? 

Tim. 

[Angrily.]     Bah ! 


A   LATE  DELIVERY  59 

Bill. 
Or  a  typewriter,  with  the  loud  pedal  on  and 
all  the  stops  out  ? 

Tim. 

[  Who  is  in  no  mood  for  this  sort  of  thing.] 
Oh,  dry  up,  man,  dry  up !  Do  you  think  I 
could  get  all  I  have  to  say  to  her  into  the 
limits  of  an  ordinary  letter  ? 

Bill. 
Under  the  present  regulations  you  can  send 
four  ounces  for  a  penny.     In  fact,  if  you  leave 
the  ends  open 

Tim. 
[Piteously.]     Bill,  old  man,  don't  pull  my 
leg  about  it !     You  don't  know  what  a  fellow 
feels  like  when  he  is  in  love. 

[Begins  to  put  on  his  coat  and  muffler. 

Bill. 
All  right.  Sorry !  But  seriously,  a  letter 
has  its  points.  I  understand  that  verbal  pro- 
posals are  inclined  to  be  incoherent.  If  you  do 
it  by  post,  the  lady  does  know  what  you  are 
driving  at,  anyhow.  I  once  knew  a  man  who 
went  off  to  propose  marriage  to  the  girl  of  his 
choice  in  a  speech  which  was  at  once  a  model 
of  lucidity  and  passion. 


60  A  LATE  DELIVERY 

Tim. 
[Sharply.]    How  do  you  know  ? 

Bill 
He  tried  most  of  it  on  me  before  he  started. 
Well,  something  went  wrong  with  the  mech- 
anism. When  he  departed  after  the  interview, 
he  left  the  lady  struggling  to  decide  whether 
she  had  been  invited  to  make  one  of  a  coop- 
erative cruising  party  to  a  distant  island,  not 
specified,  or  to  play  the  leading  part  in  private 
theatricals.  He  had  mixed  his  metaphors  a 
bit,  you  see.  Now  if  he  had  written  it  all 
down  in  a  letter,  she  would  probably  have  got 
the  hang  of  it  after  the  third  reading.  No, 
Tim,  the  post-office  may  be  dull,  but  it  is  safe. 

Tim. 
[Who  has  been  patiently  smoking  a  cigarette^ 
No  post-office  for  me,  my  lad !  I  am  going  to 
bring  it  off  by  means  of  a  personal  interview. 
I  am  going  to  let  her  have  it  hot  and  strong  ! 
I  am  going  to  carry  her  off  her  feet !  {Suddenly 
descending  to  details^  The  devil  of  it  is,  it's  so 
difficult  to  chip  in  at  the  right  moment.  One 
can't  very  well  get  to  work  while  shaking 
hands.  There  must  be  just  a  little  preliminary 
chit-chat,  don't  you  know.  \Angrily.~\  But 
the  conversation  goes  and  settles  down  to  some- 
thing   entirely  removed  from  the  matter  in 


A  LATE  DELIVERY  6l 

hand  ;  and  before  you  can  get  your  oar  in,  the 
next  dance  strikes  up,  or  somebody  interrupts 
you,  or  else  it  is  time  to  go  home.  And  there 
you  are,  once  more  out  in  the  cold  street,  kick- 
ing yourself  for  being  backward !  But,  my  no- 
ble friend,  I  am  going  to  do  it  to-night !  [At 
the  door.]  Give  me  five  minutes  in  the  Free- 
born's conservatory  between  two  waltzes,  and 
[with  great  emphasis]  she  has  simply  got  to 
have  it !     Good-night ! 

[Exit,  waving  his  hat. 

Bill. 
Good-night,  Tim.     Good  luck! 

[He  rings  the  bell.  A  pause.  Enter 
Mrs.  Grice,  l.  She  is  an  elderly 
woman  in  a  black  bonnet. 

Mrs.  Grice. 
'Ave  you  rang  the  bell,  sir  ? 

Bill. 
Yes,    Mrs.    Grice.     Will    you    clear  away, 
please  ?     I  want  that  table— to  write  a  letter  at. 
[Turns  and  fills  a  fresh  pipe. 

Mrs.  Grice. 
Yes,  sir.     [Going  to  door  l.]     Grice  ! 

Grice. 
[Outside.]     Comin',  Emmer ! 


62  A  LATE  DELIVERY 

[lie  enters,  struggling  into  his  coat.  As 
they  clear  the  table,  Bill  turns  and 
surveys  them.     Finally : 

Bill. 
Mrs.    Grice,   when  you   received  your  hus- 
band's proposal  of  marriage,  was  it  by  letter  or 
by  word  of  mouth  ? 

Mks.  Grice. 
[  Who  is  quite  accustomed  to  her  employer's 
ways;  calmly.]     Was  you  referrin'  to  Mr.  Grice, 
or  to  my  first  'usband,  sir  ? 

Grice. 
'Ow  should  Mr.  Aymer  know  you  W  a  first 
'usband,  Emmer  ? 

Mrs.  Grice. 
Knowin'  you  as  'e  does,  Grice,  Mr.  Aymer 
would  never  dream  of  regardin'  you  as  my  first 
choice  ! 

Bill. 

Let  us  say  your  first  husband,  Mrs.  Grice. 

Mrs.  Grice. 
[After  consideration.]     Well,  sir,  'e  did  it  by 
word    of    mouth.     Leastways,    not    precisely. 
Partly  by  deputy,  if  you  take  my  meaning,  sir. 


A   LATE  DELIVERY  63 

Bill. 

Not  quite. 

Mrs.  Grice. 
Well,  sir,  we'd  been  walkin'  out  for  some 
time,  and  it  didn't  look  like  ever  comin'  to  any- 
thing. So  my  brother  George,  'e  took  the  mat- 
ter up.  [Fairly  launched.]  George  was  a 
brewer's  drayman.  There  was  eleven  of  us  al- 
together  

Grice. 

[Tugging  at  her  sleeve.']     Not  so  much  of  it ! 
Get  back  to  your  first ! 

Mrs.  Grice. 
Well,  sir,  George  told  me  to  tell  'Erbert — 
that  was  'is  name :  Grice's  name,  as  you  know, 
bein'  Albert 

Grice. 
[Despairingly.]     Keep  to  the  point,  keep  to 
the  point ! 

Mrs.  Grice. 
[Continuing.]  George  told  me  to  tell  'Er- 
bert that  if  'im  and  me  wasn't  married  inside  o' 
four  weeks,  George  would  come  along  and  push 
'Erbert's  face  in  for  'im.  I  told  'Erbert,  and  we 
was  married  that  day  three  weeks,  sir.     That's 


64  A   LATE  DELIVERY 

what  I  meant  when  I  said  my  courtin'  was 
done  by  deputy,  sir. 

Bill. 
I  see.     George  was  the  deputy. 

Mes.  Grice. 
{Folding  the  table-cloth  with  Grice.]     Yes, 
sir. 

Bill. 
Grice,  when  you  asked  the  future  Mrs.  Grice 
to  marry  you,  how  did  you  go  about  it  ? 

Grice. 
{Respectfully  P\     Was  you  referrin'  to  this 
Mrs.  Grice,  sir,  or  to  my  first  wife  ? 

Bill. 
{Resignedly^     Let  us  say  this  Mrs.  Grice. 

Grice. 

{Transferring  lamp,  decanter,  glasses,  etc., 
from  the  sideboard  to  the  table.']  I  met  'er  at 
a  birthday  party  at  my  late  first's  married  sis- 
ter's, sir.  I  gave  'er  a  motter  out  of  a  cracker, 
which  seemed  to  me  to  sum  up  what  I  wanted 
to  say  in  a  very  convenient  fashion,  sir. 

Bill. 

What  was  the  motto,  Grice  ? 


A  LATE  DELIVERY  65 

Grice. 


It  said 


"  If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
Well,  let's  begin  to  bill  and  coo  lff 

sir. 

Bill. 
And  what  did  you  say  to  that,  Mrs.  Grice  ? 

Mrs.  Grice. 
I  told  him  to  stop  being  a  silly  old  man,  sir. 

Bill. 

And  did  he  ? 

Mrs.  Grice. 

No,  sir  [with  a  simper],  'e  would  'ave  me ! 
[Taking  up  the  tray.]  Will  there  be  anything 
further,  sir  ? 

Bill. 
No,  thank  you. 

Mrs.  Grice. 

Good-night,  sir. 

Bill. 
Good-night,  Mrs.  Grice. 

Grice. 

Good-night,  sir. 


66  A  LATE  DELIVERY 

Bill. 
Good-night,  Grice.  [They  both  go  out  L., 
leaving  the  lamp  on  the  table,  with  decanter, 
glasses,  siphon,  and  cigar-box.  Bill  lights  his 
pipe  and  pours  himself  out  a  drink,  then  he 
picks  up  a  leather  writing-case  and  inkstand 
from  the  bookcase,  and  places  them  on  the  table. 
He  draws  up  a  chair  B.  of  table,  and  takes  an 
unfinished  letter  out  of  the  writing-case.]  We 
all  have  our  way  of  doing  tilings.  Timmy's  is 
a  personal  interview  in  the  conservatory  at  a 
ball.  Mr.  Grice's  is  a  motto  out  of  a  cracker. 
Mrs.  Grice's  is  a  big  brother.  Mine's  a  letter. 
I'll  finish  this  and  go  out  and  post  it  before  I 
retire  to  bed.  [Takes  a  sip  from  his  glass  and 
squares  himself  to  the  task  of  writing.]  She'll 
get  it  in  the  morning. 

[Slow  curtain,  which  rises  again  after  a 

few  moments.     An  hour  has  elapsed. 

Bill  is  discovered  folding  up  a  bulky 

letter. 

Bill. 
I  think  the  occasion  calls  for  sealing-wax. 
[He  seals  the  letter.]  Now  for  a  stamp !  [He 
stamps  it.]  Less  than  four  ounces,  I  think — 
but  not  much !  Now  I  must  go  out  and  post 
it.  [Addressing  the  letter  thoughtfully.]  My 
friend,  I  wish  I  could  post  myself  along  with 
you,  and  witness  your  reception.  I  don't  know, 
though.     Rather  a  shock  for  the  poor  girl  to 


A  LATE  DELIVERY  67 

find  me  lying  on  her  plate  at  breakfast,  with  a 
red  seal  in  the  small  of  my  back  and  a  postage 
stamp  in  my  left  eye !  I  wonder  how  she  will 
take  it.  I  wonder!  [Musing.]  I — wonder! 
[More  cheerfully.]  I  wonder  how  that  young 
ass  Tim  is  getting  on.  I  expect  he  has  his 
charmer  rounded  up  into  the  conservatory  by 
this  time.  I  wonder  who  she  is.  An  ex-flapper 
of  some  kind,  I  suppose.  I  wonder  if  he  has 
carried  her  off  her  feet  yet !  They  are  both  in 
the  clouds  together  by  this  time,  I  fancy.  At 
that  age  it's  a  simple  business.  Start  the  engine, 
join  hands,  and  off  you  go !  I  wonder  why 
people  in  Tim's  condition  always  come  and 
badger  me  with  their  love  affairs.  I  wonder ! 
I'm  doing  a  lot  of  wondering  to-night.  [Begins 
to  whistle  absently,  as  he  puts  writing  materials 
together."]  What  am  I  whistling?  It  is  the 
tune  she  used  to  whistle  as  she  hammered  on 
my  door  when  she  brought  my  meals  up  to  me 
that  time  I  was  ill.  She  never  whistled  any- 
thing else.  I  spoke  to  her  about  it  at  last. 
Fat  lot  of  good  that  was  !  How  did  it  go  ? 
Tum-ti-tum-ti-tiddley-um,  tum-ti-tum-ti-ti-ti.  [He 
whistles  it.  There  is  an  echo  of  the  same  tune 
in  the  passage  outside,  followed  by  a  rat-tat-tat, 
as  the  tune  is  played  on  a  "knocker.  Bill  starts 
excitedly  to  his  feet,  and  Makjorie  appears  in 
the  doorway.  She  is  in  a  ball  dress,  and  is 
wearing  an  evening  wrap.     She  is  a  very  pretty 


68  A  LATE  DELIVERY 

girl  of  about  twenty,  with  rather  thoughtful 
eyes.  She  speaks  in  a  melodious  drawl,  and  is 
evidently  not  the  sort  of  ymcng  person  who 
would  allow  herself  to  be  u  carried  off  her  feet" 
however  greatly  she  might  appreciate  the  efforts 
of  the  would-be  carrier. .]  Marjorie  !  [Mar- 
jorie  smiles  disarmingly,  and  performs  an 
obeisance,  d  la  Geisha.']  What  on  earth  are 
you  doing  here  ? 

Marjorie. 
[  With  a  seraphic  smile.]     I  came  to  see  you, 
Bill  dear. 

Bill. 

[  With  attempted  sternness.]    Marjorie,  this  is 
most  reprehensible. 

Marjorie. 
Yes,  isn't  it  ?  May  I  sit  down  ?  The  door 
of  your  flat  was  on  the  jar,  Bill.  Your  last 
visitor  must  have  left  it  open.  Very  careless ! 
[By  this  time  she  has  taken  off  her  wrap  and 
sat  down  on  the  sofa.  She  now  looks  round, 
chattering  all  the  time.]  What  snug  rooms  you 
have.  But  very  untidy.  Look  at  those  books — 
all  anyhow.  And  your  mantelpiece.  Perfectly 
tragic  !  [Rising,  and  running  her  finger  along 
the  edge.]     Look  !     Filthy ! 

[Holds  up  her  finger.     The  tip  of  her 
glove  is  all  black. 


A  LATE  DELIVERY  69 

Bill. 
[Drily. 1     I  apologize.     You  have  dropped  in 
just  before  dusting  day.     Very  unfortunate  ! 

Marjorie. 
[Still  inspecting  the  mantelpiece.']    And  these 
pipes !     You  ought  to  put  them  out  of  sight, 
you  know,  really  !    Then  you  could  have  a  row 
of  photographs  of  fair  ladies  instead. 

Bill. 
Afraid  I  don't  know  any. 

Marjorie. 
[Freezingly.]     Tk-deed  !    I  have  an  idea  that 
I  presented  you  with  my  portrait  once. 

Bill. 
I  apologize  again.     I  spoke  in  haste.     Here 
is  yours.        [Points  to  a  photo  on  small  table  L. 

Marjorie. 
H'm  !    On  a  side-table !    I  suppose  this  space 
in  the  middle  of  the  mantelpiece  is  reserved. 

Bill. 
Reserved — what  for  ? 

Marjorie. 
Whose   photograph   does  a  man  eventually 
plant  in  the  middle  of  his  mantelpiece  ?    Hasn't 
she  come  along  yet  ?     You  must  hustle  a  bit, 


yo  A  LATE  DELIVERY 

Bill.     You  are  getting  on,  you  know.     Don't 

get  left  on  the  shelf ! 

[Sits  down  again  on  the  sofa.  Bill 
crosses  R.  and  stands  with  his  bach  to 
the  fire,  looking  down  on  her. 

Bill. 
Marjorie,  would  it  be  presumptuous  on  my 
part  to  enquire  why  you  have  honored  me  with 
a  visit  at  this  time  of  night  ? 

Marjorie. 
Bill,  I  want  to  tell  you  something,  and  I 
want  to  ask  your  advice.     In  the  first  place, 
I  have  just  had  a  proposal. 

Bill. 

[After  an  almost  imperceptible  start.]  "Where  ? 
When  ? 

Marjorie. 
[Readily.]     On  the  top  flight  of  stairs  at  the 
Freeborn's  dance,  about  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  ago. 

Bill. 
[Involuntarily.]    Not  in  the  conservatory  ? 

Marjorie. 
[Surprised.]     Conservatory  ?    No.     Why  ? 

Bill. 
[Lamely.]     I — I  had  a  kind  of  notion  that 


A  LATE  DELIVERY  yi 

these  events  always  came  off  in  the  conserva- 
tory. You  know — Chinese  lanterns,  azaleas  in 
tubs,  distant  music,  a  drip  of  water  down  your 
neck !    Well,  wTas  it  a  good  proposal  ? 

Maejoeie. 
Fair  to  middling,  I  should  say. 

Bill. 
Didn't — didn't  he  carry  you  off  your  feet  ? 

Maejoeie. 
No.  I  maintained  my  equilibrium.  It's  a 
way  I  have.  But  you  mustn't  think  I  didn't 
enjoy  the  proposal.  It  was  lovely.  Still,  I 
dare  say  I  am  not  very  critical,  you  know,  my 
experience  being  limited.  It  was  the  first  one 
I  ever  had. 

Bill. 
And  probably  the  first  he  ever  attempted. 

Maejoeie. 
Who? 

Bill. 

Timmy. 

Maejoeie. 

[Quite  calmly.]  How  very  upsetting  of  you 
to  guess,  Bill.  I  wanted  it  to  be  a  surprise. 
How  did  you  know  ? 


72  A  LATE  DELIVERY 

Bill. 
Master  Tim  was  in  here  an  hour  or  two  ago, 
bound  for  the  Freeborn's  dance,  and  obviously 
on  the  war-path.  But  I  never  dreamt  you  were 
the  objective.  So  that  is  what  you  came  to  tell 
me — eh  ?  [Crosses  to  tcible. 

Marjorie. 
Not  altogether.  Bill — [she  rises  and  stands 
before  him  with  folded  hands  /  he  sits  on  the 
corner  of  the  table]  it's  a  big  thing  for  a  girl  to 
have  to  decide  on  a  plunge  like  this — the  big- 
gest thing  she  ever  does.  If  she  has  no  mother, 
and  no  brothers  and  sisters,  and — and  a  father 
like  my  father — it  becomes  a  bigger  thing  than 
ever.  It  rather — it  rather  frightens  her  at 
times.  Her  only  course,  then,  is  to  pick  out  the 
whitest  man  she  knows,  and  ask  him  to  advise 
her.     [Sedately.']    That's  why  I  am  here. 

Bill. 
Why  not  ask  a  woman  to  advise  you  ? 

Marjorie. 
Because  women  are  such  born  match-makers  ! 
If  you  go  to  a  woman  and  confide  to  her  that 
you  are  wobbling  on  the  brink  of  matrimony, 
she  won't  advise  you.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten 
she  just  slips  behind  you  and  pushes  you  in ! 
No,  I  must  have  a  man^  Bill,  and  I  have  picked 
you,  first  of  all,  because  you  are  the  best  sort  I 


A  LATE  DELIVERY  73 

know,  and  secondly  because  you  have  seen  a 
good  deal  of  life,  and  thirdly  because  you  are 
absolutely  unbiased.  Now,  Bill  [turns  and 
walks  slowly  R.  to  the  fire,  then  turns  and  faces 
him  again],  you  know  me,  and  you  know  Tim. 
Shall  I  marry  him  ?  [A  long  pause. 

Bill. 
May  I  ask  you  a  few  old-fashioned  and  ob- 
vious questions  ?    Do  you — care  for  him  ? 

Marjorie. 
[Standing  with  her  hack  to  him,  fingerimg  the 
mantel-border.]  Well,  he's  rather  a  dear,  you 
know.  .  .  .  And  I  am  fond  of  him.  .  .  . 
But  I  don't  quite  know  how  much  of  it  is  the 
real  thing  and  how  much  is  gratitude.  [Hesita- 
tingly.'] I  think  you  know,  Bill,  that  I  have  a 
pretty  stiff  time  of  it  at  home,  sometimes 

Bill. 

[  With  sudden  vehemence.]     Yes,  I  do  know  ! 
That  is — go  on ! 

Marjorie. 
I  only  got  to  the  dance  to-night  by  playing 
truant.  I  shall  pay  for  it  to-morrow,  I  fancy. 
Dad  doesn't  allow  me  many  friends,  so  I  don't 
get  much  society.  You,  for  instance,  have 
given  up  coming  near  us. 


74  A  LATE  DELIVERY 

Bill. 
Marjorie,  you  know  I  had  no  other  alterna- 
tive. Two  years  ago  I  came  to  spend  a  few 
days  at  your  house.  The  evening  I  arrived  I 
was  taken  ill  with  what  turned  out  to  be  typhoid 
fever,  and  I  couldn't  be  moved  for  weeks.  I 
left  as  soon  as  the  doctor  would  let  me,  but  not 
before  your  papa  had  practically  accused  me  of 
selecting  his  house  to  come  and  have  a  cheap 
attack  of  typhoid  in. 

Marjoeie. 
I  know.     I  apologize.     But  you  know  what 
Dad  is. 

Bill. 
Your  parent  furthermore  added 

Maejorie. 
Yes.  I  know  what  he  added.  I  overheard 
him.  He  shouts,  rather,  when  he  is  making  a 
point.  And  of  course  you  couldn't  answer  back, 
poor  thing !  \In  a  more  cheerful  tone.]  The 
fact  is,  the  old  gentleman  took  a  sort  of  dislike 
to  you  the  first  time  he  found  me  washing  your 
face.  After  all,  somebody  had  to  do  it.  Still, 
the  long  and  short  of  it  is,  Bill,  that  you  don't 
come  about  the  house  any  more.  Tim  does, 
though.  Apparently  Dad  regards  him  as  harm- 
less. Tim  has  been  very  kind  to  me,  and,  as  I 
say,  I  am  grateful. 


A  LATE  DELIVERY  7$ 

Bill. 
And  you  are  thinking  of  marrying  him  ? 

Marjorie. 
[Frankly.]     Yes,  I  am.    The  next  question, 
please !    You  said  "  a  few." 

Bill. 
You  are  sure  he  loves  you  ? 

Marjorie. 
Well,  from  the  way  he  went  on  on  the  top 
step,  I  should  call  him  a  pretty  severe  case. 

Bill. 

Where  is  he  now  ? 

Marjorie. 
I  left  him  at  the  ball.     He  was  particularly 
anxious  to  have  a  farewell  waltz  with  a  certain 
girl.     You  see,  he  is  by  way  of  burning  his 
boats  to-night. 

Bill. 
Who  is  the  lady  ? 

Marjorie. 

Hilda  Smithson.     He  told  me  all  about  her. 

She  is  one  of  the  only  other  girls  he  ever  loved. 

I  gather  that  she  is  practically  the  pick  of  the 

"  also  rans."     I  told  him  he  could  have  half  an 


76  A   LATE  DELIVERY 

hour  to  close  his  account  with  her,  and  then  he 
could  come  along  here  and  call  for  me.  Now, 
Bill,  shall  I  ? 

Bill. 
He  has  plenty  of  money,  I  know.  ...  I 
want  to  ask  one  more  question,  Marjorie.  I  feel 
infernally  grandfatherly,  but  after  all,  there  is 
no  going  back  on  these  things,  once  they  are 
done.  [Hesitatingly. ,]  Are  you — are  you  quite 
sure  there  is  nobody  else  ? 

Maejorie. 
How  can  there  be  anybody  else  ?  You  and 
Tim  are  the  only  two  men  I  know — really  well, 
that  is.  [Coming  closer.]  I — I'll  go  by  your 
advice,  Bill.  Be  a  big  brother  for  a  minute, 
and  tell  me  what  to  do.  Shall  I  marry  him  ? 
May  I  marry  him  ?  I'm  rather  lonely,  some- 
times. 

[A  silence.     They  are  standing  face  to 
face. 

Bill. 
[Suddenly.']  Yes — marry  him !  And  I'll 
come  and  be  best  man.  [Briskly.']  Now  if 
you  will  sit  down  and  warm  your  toes  at  the 
tire  for  a  few  minutes  I  will  go  out  and  get 
you  a  cab.  There's  a  thick  fog,  and  I  doubt  if 
Master  Timothy  will  ever  find  his  way  here.  I 
suppose  I  can't  offer  you  a  whiskey  and  soda  ? 


A   LATE  DELIVERY  77 

Makjorie. 
[Sitting  on  the  sofa.]  I'll  take  some  soda- 
water,  please.  [Bill  draws  some  from  the 
siphon  and  hands  it  to  her.']  You  are  a  good 
sort,  Bill.  You  ought  to  marry  some  day.  You 
are  wasted  at  present.  And  when  you  pick 
your  wife,  let  me  see  her  first,  and  I'll  take 
care  you  aren't  imposed  on. 

Bill. 
[Putting  on  coat.]    Hansom  or  fourwheeler — 
presuming  I  can  get  either  ? 

Makjorie. 
I'm  not  particular.  You  had  better  be  quick 
though,  because  I  am  going  to  explore  your 
room  and  examine  all  your  treasures.  [But 
Bill  has  hurried  out  by  this  time.  Presently 
Mar  J  OKIE  gets  up  and  begins  a  tour  of  the 
room.]  I  don't  think  much  of  Bill's  taste  in 
art  [examining  photographs],  or  his  friends ! 
[Coming  to  bookcase.]  But  he  has  some  nice 
books.  [Crosses  to  table  and  puts  down  empty 
glass.]     Hallo,  he  has  forgotten  to  post  a  letter. 

I  wonder  if  it's  imp [Her  eye  suddenly 

falls  upon  the  name  and  address  on  the  enve- 
lope. She  picks  it  %ip  and  reflects^]  "Hard 
Case  Number  One  Hundred  and  something. 
A,  a  young  spinster,  casually  visiting  the  dwell- 
ing of  B,  a  bachelor  acquaintance,  finds  upon 


78  A   LATE  DELIVERY 

the  table  a  letter  in  B's  handwriting  addressed 
to  herself  and  stamped  for  post.  What  should 
A  do  ?  Answer  adjudged  correct : — Leave  the 
letter  alone  and  receive  it  at  breakfast-time 
next  morning.  Answer  adjudged  incorrect : — 
Open  the  letter  and  read  it  at  once."  [Smil- 
ing ingenuously.']  A  opens  the  letter  at  once ! 
[Does  so.~]  I  will  salve  my  conscience  by  pick- 
ing off  the  stamp  and  saving  him  a  penny. 
[Does  so.']  I'm  afraid  I  never  did  have  the 
instincts  of  a  real  lady.  [Unfolds  the  letter; 
it  consists  of  several  sheets.']     What  a  screed ! 

What  can [Glances  hastily  at  the  end.~\ 

Oh !  .  .  .  Oh !  .  .  .  [She  sits  down  at 
the  table  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  and  reads  the 
letter  through.  Sometimes  she  reads  in  silence  ; 
sometimes  she  reads  passages  aloud,  with  com- 
ments  of  her  own,  as  follows?]  "  This  is  the 
letter  of  a  man  who  suffers  from  an  impediment 
in  his  speech."  (I've  never  noticed  it !)  "  The 
affliction  is  not  chronic,  but  recurs  whenever  the 
sufferer  finds  himself  called  upon  to  talk  about 
things  that  really  matter.  Hence  pen  and  ink ! 
I  have  tried  the  other  way  twice."  (Has  he  ? 
It's  the  first  Pve  heard  of  it.)  "  On  the  first 
occasion  I  was  incoherent,  on  the  second  speech- 
less. Once  was  in  a  hansom,  taking  you  home 
from  tea  at  Rumpelmayer's.  We  had  met  by 
accident  at  the  Queen's  Hall.  At  least,  you 
thought  it  was  by  accident.     The  second  time 


A  LATE  DELIVERY  79 

was  when  I  came  to  your  house  one  afternoon 
a  few  months  ago,  to  call.  You  had  been  cry- 
ing. I  suppose  your  father  had  been  unkind  to 
you  again.  Not  that  you  showed  it,  but  I  hap- 
pened to  sit  down  in  the  same  armchair  with 
your  handkerchief,  which  was  soaking.  [Her 
voice  trembles  between  tears  and  laughter.]  If 
necessary,  I  can  produce  the  handkerchief  as 
evidence."  Dear  Bill !  .  .  .  "  But  I  must 
tell  you  how  it  all  began.  It  was  a  long  time 
ago."  I  wonder  why  men  always  want  to  go 
back  to  the  year  One  when  they  propose.  Tim 
did  it  too.  I  suppose  they  want  to  show  what 
a  respectable  and  long-lived  affection  it  has 
always  been.  "Established  1843" — that  sort 
of  thing.  [Meads  on  in  silence  /  then.]  .  .  . 
"  Do  you  remember  the  days  when  I  lay  ill  in 
your  house  in  the  country  ?  "  (I  do,  my  boy ! 
Dad  thought  you  were  doing  it  on  purpose, 
although  I  kept  on  explaining  that  typhoid 
fever  could  not  be  simulated.)  ..."  And 
the  little  tune  you  used  to  whistle  when  you 
rattled  on  my  door  at  meal-times."  (Yes,  I 
remember  that  too.  I  did  it  to  drown  Dad, 
enquiring  after  your  health  from  the  foot  of  the 
staircase!)  .  .  .  [Turns  over.]  But  what 
is  this  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  Bill,  this  is  very  good  ! 
.  .  .  Bill,  you're  a  man  !  [She  reads  on  and 
on.]  .  .  .  Oh,  Bill  dear,  I  never  knew  all 
this,  I  never  knew !     [She  finishes  the  letter. 


80  A   LATE  DELIVERY 

folds  it  up  very  slowly  and  gently,  and  then 
sits  leaning  forward  with  her  elbows  on  the 
table,  gazing  straight  before  her.] 

[Slow  curtain,  which  rises  again  after 
one  minute,  denoting  a  lapse  of  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour.  Marjorie  is  busily 
writing  at  the  place  recently  occupied 
by  Bill  for  the  same  purpose.  Pres- 
ently Tim  appears  in  the  doorway.  He 
stands  gazing  affectionately  on  Mar- 
jorie/w  a  moment,  then  quietly  re- 
moves his  overcoat  and  muffler.  He  is 
stealing  across  the  room  in  the  direc- 
tion of  her  chair. 

Marjorie. 
[  Without  looking  up.]     That  you,  Timmy  ? 

Tim. 

[Reaching  her  chair  and  putting  his  hands  on 
the  back.]     Yes — dearest ! 

Marjorie. 
Don't  bother  me  at  present.    I'm  rather  busy. 
[Blots  pjage  and  turns  it  over. 

Tim. 

[Rather  taken  aback.]     But,  darling,  I 

Marjorie. 
Trot  along  to  the  mantelpiece  and  help  your- 
self to  a  cigarette,  there's  a  good  child. 


A   LATE  DELIVERY  8 1 

Tim. 
[In  a  slightly  injured  tone.]     Marjorie,  I  don't 
think  that  is  quite  the  way  for  a  girl  to  address 
her  fiance. 

Marjorie. 
Her  what  ? 

Tim. 
Her — dash  it  all,  Marjorie,  don't  be  a  little 
pig!     Here  I   come   hareing   along   from  the 
dance  in  search  of  you,  as  full  of  beans  as  a — as 
a— as  a 

Marjorie. 

[Helpfully.]     Bean-pod  ? 

Tim. 

[Shouting.]  No !  Yes !  All  right — bean- 
pod  if  you  like !  Well,  here  I  come,  and  you 
greet  me  as  if  I  were — your  solicitor ! 

Marjorie. 
[Gently.]     I  should  never  dream  of  address- 
ing my  solicitor  as  "  Timmy,"  Timmy. 

Tim. 
Well,  you  know  what  I  mean.     Just  think — 
we  have  both  been  passing  through  the  greatest 
crisis  of  our  lives — the  most  thrilling  moment 
of  our  joint  existence 


82  A   LATE  DELIVERY 

MARJORIE. 
[In  simple  wonder. ~\    Have  we  ?    I  had  no 
idea. 

Tim. 

[Angrily  striding  about  the  room.']  Marjorie, 
what  does  all  this  mean  ?  Let  us  understand 
one  another  clearly ! 

Marjorie. 
[Putting  the  letter  into  an  envelope  and  de- 
claiming theatrically.]  "  Tush !  "  cried  the 
Marquis,  pacing  the  floor  of  the  bijou  boudoir 
like  a  caged  lion.  [Tim  utters  an  exclamation, 
whirls  round  upon  his  heel,  and  drops  on  to  the 
sofa.]  Then,  with  a  superb  ejaculation  of  con- 
tempt, he  turned  upon  his  heel  and  flung  him- 
self into  the  depths  of  an  abysmal  divan 

[Breaking  off.]     Careful,  Timmy  !  I  heard  the 
sofa  crack. 

Tim. 

{In  an  extremely  indignant  voice.]  Marjorie, 
I  suppose  you  know  you  are  breaking  my  heart. 
Also  destroying  my  faith  in  women.  Mere  de- 
tails, of  course,  but  possibly  they  may  interest 
you! 

Marjorie. 
Have  I  ?     [  With  a  sudden  change  of  manner.] 


A   LATE  DELIVERY  83 

I'm  sorry — there !     Tim,  I — I  have  been  think- 
ing things  over 

[Addresses  the  envelope  and  blots  it. 

Tim. 

And  you  have  come  to  the  conclusion  you 

don't  love  me.     That's  a  woman  all  over.     An 

hour  and  a  half  has  done  the  trick  in  your 

case [Looking  at  his  watch  indignantly. 

Marjorie. 
[^Rising,  leaving  the  letter  on  the  table.]  I 
wasn't  going  to  say  anything  of  the  kind, 
Tim,  dear.  [Tim  softens  instantly.  Marjorie 
comes  R.  and  stands  facing  him,  fingering  his 
coat.  Then,  gently.']  Tim,  do  you  think  a  man 
like  you  ought  to  marry  at  your  age  ?  What 
lovely  waist-coat  buttons ! 

Tim. 
Don't  treat  me  like  a  child,  please.     You 
think  I  am  too  young  ? 

Marjorie. 
[Deliberately.']     I  wasn't  thinking  of  you  at 
the  moment. 

Tim. 
[Cross  again.]     Oh— yourself  !     I  see. 


84  A   LATE  DELIVERY 

Marjokik. 
[Patiently. .]     No :  something  bigger.     I  was 
thinking — well,  of  the  nation  at  large. 

Tim. 

[Entirely  puzzled,  but  not  displeased.]     Mar- 
jorie,  what  are  you  talking  about  ? 

Marjorie. 
Well,  it's  this  way.     Many  a  man  of  promise 
has  spoiled  his  career  by  marrying  too  young. 
You  are  a  man  of  promise,  Tim. 

Tim. 
[Much  inflated.]     Oh,  rot ! 

Marjorie. 
If  you  married  now  you  would  settle  down 
as  a  contented  domesticated  husband,  when  all 
the  time  you  ought  to  be  working  and  fighting 
and  becoming  famous 

Tim. 

[Taking  fire .]     By  Jove  ! 

Marjorie. 

and  growing  great  and  glorious  !    Would 

you  sacrifice  all  that,  Tim  ? 

Tim. 
But    you    would   help   me,   Marjorie.     You 
wouldn't  be  in  the  way  a  bit,  really  ! 


A  LATE  DELIVERY  85 

Marjorie. 
[Gratefully.]  You  do  say  kind  things  tome, 
Tim.  But  it  would  never  do,  really.  Even  a 
man  of  your  great  talents  would  find  it  hard  to 
get  on  without  friends  and  influence ;  and  very 
young  married  men  have  few  friends  and  less 
influence,  Tim.  They  are  back  numbers.  No- 
body wants  them.  It's  the  rising  young  bach- 
elors who  go  everywhere,  and  are  able  to  com- 
mand interest  and  popularity  and  fame.  I 
should  be  a  dreadful  drag.  [As  Tim  draws  in 
his  breatli  to  make  some  gallant  interjection.] 
How  beautifully  you  tie  white  ties,  Tim  !  No, 
I  think  you  must  establish  yourself  in  the  pub- 
lic eye  "before  you  settle  down.  Don't  you 
agree  ?  [  Turns-  and  walks  slowly  L. 

Tim. 
[Wavei^ing.]     There's  a  good  deal  in  what 
you  say,  Marjorie.     Look  here  !     [  With  sudden 
inspiration.]     Supposing  we  got  married  in  five 
years'  time  ? 

Marjorie. 
It  would  be  a  very  difficult  five  years  for  you, 
Tim.  Imagine  yourself  going  about  this  big 
world,  meeting  all  sorts  of  famous  and  influen- 
tial people,  and  growing  more  and  more  famous 
and  influential  yourself.  Girls  would  be  falling 
in  love  with  you 


86  A  LATE  DELIVERY 

Tim. 
[Much  confused.]    Oh,  I  say 

Marjorie. 

and  all  the  time  you  would  be  unable 

to  give  them  any  encouragement,  because  you 
felt  bound  to  come  at  the  end  of  five  years 
and  marry  me — and  take  in  Dad  as  a  parlor- 
boarder  ! 

Tim. 
[Aghast]     Your  father  !    D-do  you  think  he 
would  want  to  come  and  live  with  us  ? 

Marjorie. 
[Serenely.]     It's  possible.     You  never  know. 
[Turns  and  walks  up  stage. 

Tim. 
[Desperately.]  I  must  think!  [He  thinks, 
furiously.  Marjorie  occupies  herself  in  tidy- 
ing the  uniting  materials  on  the  table.  Pres- 
ently.] Marjorie,  you  have  a  sense  of  proportion 
quite  unusual  in  your  sex.  You  are  the  most 
far-sighted  woman  I  have  ever  known. 

Marjorie. 
I  believe  I  am. 

Tim. 
And  the  most  unselfish. 


A   LATE  DELIVERY  8/ 

Marjorie. 
I'm  not  so  sure  of  that. 

Tim. 
What  you  say  about  my  making  a  career, 
and  all  that — well,  there's  something  in  it,  you 
know,  there's  something  in  it !  [  With  sudden 
enthusiasm.']  Gad,  I  rather  see  myself  in  Par- 
liament, letting  those  old  chaps  have  it  in  the 
neck — what  ?  And  I  see  that  you  are  perfectly 
right  about  my  not  tying  myself  down  by  an 
early  marriage.  I  consider  it  a  jolly  sporting 
and  unselfish  view  to  take.  Still,  I  mustn't 
allow  you  to  suffer.  [Takes  her  hands.]  Look 
here,  Marjorie,  if  I  come  to  you  in  five  years, 
and  ask  you  to  marry  me,  will  you  ? 

Marjorie. 

Yes 

Tim. 
Cheers ! 

Marjorie. 
On  one  condition. 

Tim. 

And  that  is 

Marjorie. 
That  neither  of  us  has  married  any  one  else 
in  the  meantime. 


88  A  LATE  DELIVERY 

Tim. 

You  can  set  your  mind  at  rest  on  that  point, 

Marjorie.     I'll  stick  to  you.     Then  it's  a  deal  ? 

[Marjorie  nods.]     I  say,  Marjorie,  I  should — 

like  to  kiss  you  !  {Drawing  her  closer. 

Marjorie. 
[Calmly.']  I  think  we  said  five  years,  not 
five  seconds.  [Slips  away  from  him  and  goes  L.] 
Now,  Tim,  you  trot  off  to  your  ball  again ;  it's 
quite  early.  Bill  will  take  me  home ;  he  has 
gone  to  get  a  cab  for  me  now.  You  go  and 
perform  a  similar  service  for  Hilda  Smithson. 

Tim. 
[Scornfully.]      Oh,    I    say — come  !      Hilda 
Smithson ! 

Marjorie. 
Why  not?  She  is  a  very  nice,  pretty  girl, 
and  her  father  is  a  most  influential  man.  Re- 
member you  have  got  to  spend  the  next  five 
years  getting  to  know  influential  people.  Start 
on  Hilda.  If  you  hurry  up  you  may  be  able  to 
catch  her  for  the  last  extra. 

Tim. 
You   are  right,   Marjorie.     You  are  always 
right.     [Begins  to  put  on  his  coat  and  muffler.] 
I  believe  you  know  what  is  best  for  me  better 
than  I  do  myself. 


A   LATE  DELIVERY  89 

Marjorie. 
I  shouldn't  be  surprised.    Good-night,  Thnmy. 

Tim. 
{Looking  at  his  watch.]     Good-night,  Mar- 
jorie.  [Exit,  hastily. 

Marjorie. 
[Alone.]     I  give  that  child  six  months ! 

[Bill  and  Tim  are  heard  talking  and 
enter  together. 

Bill. 
Just  as  well  I  caught  you,  Tim.     I  can't  find 
a  cab  high  or  low,  but  of  course  you  will  take 
Marjorie  home  in  yours. 

Marjorie. 
Tim  is  going  back  to  the  ball,  Bill.     He  has 
one  or  two  duty  dances  to  work  off.     But  I'll 
share  his  cab  as  far  as  the  Freeborns'  and  then 
go  on  home  in  it.     I  shall  be  quite  safe. 

Tim. 
Hurry  up,   then,   Marjorie.     I  should  look 
rather  a  mug  if  I  got  there  to  find  the  place 
shut — what  ?     Good-night,  Bill,  old  son  ! 

[lie  goes  out,  putting  on  his  white  glov.es. 

Bill. 
[Hesitatingly.]     Shall  I  come  too,  and  act 


90  A  LATE  DELIVERY 

as  subsequent  escort;  or  should  I  find  myself 
a  member  of  the  ancient  French  family  of 
DeTrop? 

Marjorie. 
{Putting  on  her  cloak  and  wrap  with  his 
help.]     You  would  never  be  de  trop  anywhere, 
Bill.     But  I  am  not  going  to  drag  you  to  South 
Kensington  to-night. 

Bill. 
[Shaking  hands.]     Have  you  given  him  his 
answer  ? 

Marjorie. 
Yes. 

Bill. 
Can  I  guess  it  ? 

Marjorie. 
I  don't  know.     You  might.    It's  an  even 
chance,  isn't  it? 

Tim. 

[Loudly,  from  the  front  door.]     Marjorie ! 

Marjorie. 
[Calling.]     Coming,  Tim ! 

Bill. 
Tim  seems  rather  to  have  taken  command  of 
things,  hasn't  he  ? 


A  LATE  DELIVERY  9 1 

Marjorie. 
Think  so  ?  He's  only  in  a  hurry,  poor  lamb. 
But  I  must  fly.  It's  as  well  you  came  in  when 
you  did.  [Picking  up  fan,  gloves,  etc.]  Two 
minutes  later  and  you  would  have  found  me 
gone.  [Deliberately.]  You  seem  to  have  a 
habit  of  running  things  rather  line,  Bill. 

Bill. 
Have  I  ?    How  ? 

Tim. 

[Outside.]     Mar-jor-ie ! 

Marjorie. 
Heavens !    Good-night,  Bill ! 

Bill. 
Good-night,  Marjorie. 

Marjorie. 
[Turning  in  the  doorway '.]  Good-night — big 
brother !  [She  goes  out.  Bill  goes  to  the  door- 
way and  watches  her  down  the  passage.  Then 
he  turns  and  walks  rather  heavily  down  L. 
Marjorie  suddenly  reappears  in  the  doorway^] 
I  say,  Bill. 

Bill. 
[Turning.]     Hallo ! 


92  A   LATE  DELIVERY 

Mar.i  OKIE. 
Don't  forget  to  post  your  letter.     Ta-ta  ! 

[She  vanishes. 

Bill. 
[Looking  first  at  the  empty  doorway,  then  at  the 
audience,  then  toward  the  tabls.]  Now  what  the 
devil  did  she  mean  by  that  ?  [Advances  toward 
the  table,  and  suddenly  sees  that  the  letter  there 
is  not  his  J]  A-a-ah  !  [Snatches  up  the  letter.] 
What's  this  on  the  back  ?  "  P.  S.  I  have  saved 
you  a  stamp  by  reading  your  letter  now.  P.  P.  S. 
You  will  find  the  stamp  on  the  inkstand." 
[After  inspecting  the  stamp  in  a  dazed  fashion 
he  opens  the  letter.]  I  wanted  her  never  to  know 
about  this.  [He  sinks  doion  on  the  chair  by  the 
lamp  and  reads.]  .  .  .  "  This  is  the  letter 
of  a  girl  without  any  impediments,  either  in  her 
speech  or  in  her  manners.  As  I  have  nothing 
to  do  while  you  are  cab-chasing,  I  will  answer 
your  letter  now.  Please  turn  over :  I  can't  say 
it  on  this  page.  [Turns  over.]  Bill,  old 
man    .     .     ."   . 

[Hereafter  he  reads  on  in  rapt  silence.  His 
eyes  open  wider  as  the  meaning  of  the 
letter  dawns  on  him.  His  foot  begins  to 
beat  exultantly,  and  he  breaks  into  the 
little  tune  mentioned  before.  He  lifts 
his  head  and  gazes  giddily  round 
the   room.     Suddenly  a  thought  strikes 


A   LATE  DELIVERY  93 

him.  He  rises  and  picks  Marj ORIE's 
photograph  off  the  side-table.  Holding 
it  aloft,  he  marches  across  the  room  to 
the  sound  of  his  own  tune,  and  sweeping 
everything  off  the  mantelpiece  with  one 
movement  of  his  arm,  triumphantly 
plants  the  photograph  in  the  very  mid- 
dle, as  the  curtain  falls. 


CURTAIN 


The  Missing  Card 
A  Comedietta  in  One  Act 


The  Missing  Card 

CHARACTERS 

Mrs.  Millington,  a  widow. 
Sophy,  her  maid. 
Nicholas  Bindle,  a  solicitor. 
Major  Tuckle,  retired. 

Time. — The  present. 


SYNOPSIS 

Two  elderly  gentlemen,  Mr.  Bindle  and  Major 
Tuckle,  arrive  almost  simultaneously  in  the 
drawing-room  of  Mrs.  Millington,  a  young 
widow,  each  determined  to  propose  to  her. 
The  lady  is  not  at  home,  and  the  two  gentle- 
men, on  discovering  one  another's  intentions, 
engage  in  a  fierce  dispute  as  to  which  is  to  with- 
draw. They  finally  decide  to  cut  through  a 
pack  of  cards,  whoever  draws  the  Queen  of 
Hearts  having  the  right  to  propose  first.  The 
game  is  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Mil- 
lington herself.  She  welcomes  them  as  old 
friends,  and,  suspecting  nothing,  invites  them 
to  stay  to  tea.  The  plot,  however,  has  been 
overheard  by  Mrs.  Millington's  maid,  Sophy, 
and  she  takes  the  first  opportunity  of  revealing 
it  to  her  mistress.  Mrs.  Millington,  more 
amused  than  angry,  quietly  removes  the  Queen 
of  Hearts  from  the  pack,  and  then  invites  the 
gentlemen  to  finish  their  game,  whatever  it  may 
be,  before  tea.  They  comply,  and  their  excite- 
ment as  the  pack  diminishes  and  the  Queen  does 
not  appear  is  only  equaled  by  their  dismay 
when  they  discover  that  the  card  is  not  in  the 
pack  at  all.     Mrs.  Millington,  who  has  been 

97 


98  THE  MISSING  CARD 

watching  the  struggle  with  keen  relish,  now 
coyly  expresses  a  hope  that  it  was  not  the  Queen 
of  Hearts  they  wanted,  as  she  had  abstracted  it 
from  the  pack  for  a  special  purpose  of  her  own, 
which  she  will  reveal  to  them,  "  as  you  are  such 
old  friends  of  mine."  The  Vicar,  she  explains, 
has  that  afternoon  asked  her  to  become  his 
"  Queen  of  Hearts,"  and  she  has  decided  to  ac- 
cept him.  She  has  therefore  just  dispatched  to 
him  an  envelope  containing  the  card  in  ques- 
tion, as  a  token  of  acquiescence.  She  invites 
their  congratulations. 

Mr.  Bindle  and  the  Major,  admitting  to  each 
other  that  they  have  been  a  pair  of  "  old  fools," 
take  their  departure,  consoling  themselves  with 
the  reflection  that  Mrs.  Millington  "  will  never 
know  "  what  their  errand  was  that  afternoon. 


The  Missing  Card 


SCENE. — Mrs.  Millington's  drawing-room, 
about  three  o'clock  on  a  summer  afternoon. 
At  back,  curtained  entrance.  L.  U.  E.,  door  to 
conservatory.  R.  Citable;  L.  c,  armchair; 
L.,  tea-table.  R.,  table,  with  card-box.  Foot- 
stool under  table. 

Enter  SOPHY,  C,  followed  by  BlNDLE.  He  is  a 
middle-aged  solicitor,  with  fresh  complexion 
and  gray  whiskers.  lie  is  immaculately 
dressed  and  obviously  nervous.  He  puts  down 
his  hat  and  umbrella  on  table  R. 

BlNDLE. 

You  are  sure  Mrs.  Millington  will  be  in  quite 
soon,  Sophy  ? 

Sophy. 
Yes,  sir.  She  went  out  to  luncheon  at  the 
vicarage,  sir,  at  half -past  one,  but  she  men- 
tioned particularly  that  she  would  be  home  for 
tea.  She'll  be  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  1 
should  say. 

99 


IOO  THE  MISSING  CARD 

BlNDLE. 
[In  a  rather  deprecating  manner.]    Then  I — 
ah — suppose  there  would  be  no  harm  in  my 
awaiting  her  return — eh,  Sophy  ? 

Sophy. 
[Slightly  surprised  that  he  should  ask  per- 
mission^ Oh,  dear  no,  sir.  Will  you  please 
to  take  a  seat  [presenting  chair'},  and  I'll  tell 
Mrs.  Millington  you're  here  the  moment  she 
comes  in,  sir. 

BlNDLE. 

Thank  you,  Sophy.    [Sophy  turns  to  go.    He 
suddenly  f tumbles  in  his  pocket.]    Er — Sophy  ! 

Sophy. 
[Turning    sharply,   surprised  at  his  tone.] 
Yes,  sir  ? 

BlNDLE. 

Er — ha — for  you,  Sophy  ! 

[Suddenly  hands  her  half  a  crown. 

Sophy. 
[Mystified  but  grateful.]     Thank  you,  sir  ! 
[She  goes  out,  turning  at  the  door  to  con- 
template   Bindle,   who   is  feverishly 
taking  off  his  gloves  :  and  after  look- 
ing again  at  the  half-crown,  taps  her 


THE  MISSING  CARD  IOI 

foreliead  significantly.  Left  alone, 
BlKDLE  sits  L.  of  table  and  fans  him- 
self with  his  handkerchief. 

BlNDLE. 

Nick,  my  boy,  that  last  move  was  a  mistake 
— a  mistake  and  an  extravagance !  Sophy  was 
perfectly  friendly  from  the  start.  That  half- 
crown  will  merely  rouse  her  suspicions.  She'll 
wonder  what  I'm  up  to.  Never  mind !  Too 
late  now.  Dear,  dear,  I'm  feeling  very  low ! 
[lie  takes  a  small  mirror  from  his  pocket  and 
examines  his  tongue.']  Slightly  coated,  slightly 
coated !  {Takes  out  his  watch  and  holds  it  tn  his 
left  hand,  while  he  feels  his  pulse  with  his  right.] 
Twenty-three,  twenty -four,  twenty-live — simply 
racing,  simply  racing!  Talk  about  the  Lusi- 
tania  !  [Produces  a  phial  out  of  his  pocket  and 
eats  a  tabloid.]  There,  I  think  that  will  steady 
things  down.  [Looks  round.]  I  do  hope  nobody 
else  will  come  in  and  disturb  my  plans.  Now 
I  think  of  it,  I  drove  past  that  old  bore  Tuckle 
on  the  road.  I  wonder  if  he  was  on  his  way 
here.  Surely  he  couldn't  be  so  crassly  wanting 
in  tact  and — ah — discernment.  A  quarter  of 
an  hour,  I  think  Sophy  said.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  before  I  advance  to  the  attack !  But  I 
must  arrange  the — ah — field  of  battle.  [Rises, 
and  pushes  armchair  forward  a  little.  Then 
he  brings  a  small  chair  and  places  it  by  the 


102  THE  MISSING  CARD 

armchair?]  After  all,  there  is  nothing  like  a 
good  rehearsal.  [Sits  in  tJie  small  chair  and 
lays  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  armchair.']  No, 
that  won't  do !  [Rises,  takes  back  small  chair, 
and  brings  a  footstool  instead.  Then  he  props 
up  a  large  cushion  in  the  chair  to  represent 
Mrs.  Millington,  and  goes  to  table  r.,  where 
he  produces  a  small  bunch  of  roses  from  inside 
h  is  hat  and  advances  toward  the  door,  as  if  to 
greet  the  entrance  of  some  one.  At  the  door  he 
bows,  and  offers  the  flowers  to  the  imaginary 
person.']  A  small  token  of — ah — esteem,  dear 
lady.  [Pause.]  I  am  indeed  glad  to  find  that 
roses  are  your  favorite  flower.  [Pause.]  No, 
no,  the  pleasure  is  mine!  Will  you  not  be 
seated  ?  [He  hands  the  imaginary  lady  to  the 
"rm  chair  with  much  ceremony  ;  then,  after  lay- 
ing the  roses  on  tlie  table  R.  and  having  given  a 
pull  to  his  cuffs  and  waistcoat,  he  advances  to 
the  footstool  and  kneels  laboriously.     Then,  in 

a  deep  sepulchral  voice.]     Er — Gertrude 

No,  that  won't  do.     [On  a  high  throaty  note.] 

Er — Gertrude No,  that's  too  high  !    [More 

normally.]  Er — Gertrude — that's  better !— the 
request  which  I  am  about  to  make  to  you  may 
cause  you  some — er — surprise,  but  I  trust  no — ah 
— apprehension.  Er — apprehension.  You  cannot 
have  remained  unconscious  all  these  months — 
er — you  cannot  have  remained  unconscious  all 
these  months — um — all  these  months [Pes- 


THE  MISSING  CARD  103 

perately.]  You  cannot  have  remained  uncon- 
scious all  these  months Oh,  confound  it ! 

[Sits  on  the  floor  and  produces  a  legal-looking 
blue  document  tied  with  red  tape.  Finds  the 
place,  and,  adjusting  his  eye-glass,  continues, 

reading.] that  my  feeling  toward  you  is 

no  common  one.  I  have  long  admired  you. 
[As  he  reads  Sophy  appears  a,  conducting 
Major  Tuckle,  a  choleric-looking  gentleman, 
with  a  brick-red  face  and  white  moustache.]  I 
have  long  worshipped  you ;  and  unworthy  object 

though  I  feel  myself  to  be,  I  trust [Looks 

up.]     The  devil ! 

Tuckle. 
[Advancing    boisterously^      Hallo,    Bindle ! 
Looking  for  sixpences  ? 

Bindle. 

[Sophy  goes  into  conservatory '.]  Er — no.  I 
had  dropped  my  eye-glasses.  Have  you  come 
to  see  Mrs.  Millington  ? 

Tuckle. 
[Rather  fiercely.]     Yes.     Any  objection  ? 

Bindle. 

[  With  offensive  humility '.]  It  is  not  for  me 
to  criticize  Mrs.  Millington's  choice  of  friends. 
But  I  may  as  well  inform  you  that  the  lady  is 
not  at  home. 


104  THE  MISSING  CARD 

TUCKLE. 
And  I  may  as  well  inform  you  that  she  will 
be,  in  ten  minutes  time.    [Sits  B.  of  table  ^   Are 
you  here  by  appointment  ? 

Bindle. 
Er — not  precisely.     Are  you  ? 

Tuckle. 

Well — practically. 

BlNDLE. 

[Jealously. 1     You  have  been  invited  ? 

■ 

Tuckle. 
[Reluctantly.']  Well,  hardly  that.  [  With  a 
sudden  inspiration.]  But  there  is  no  need  for 
formal  invitations  between  Mrs.  Millington  and 
myself.  I  just  drop  in  when  I  want  to.  What 
are  you  here  for  ? 

BlNDLE. 

[Mildly.]  Keally,  Tuckle,  we  are  old  friends, 
but  I  do  not  think  you  have  any  right  to  ques- 
tion me  like  this. 

Ttjckle. 
Bindle,  old  man,  you  are  concealing  some- 
thing.    Out  with  it !     Out  with  it ! 


THE  MISSING  CARD  105 

BlNDLE. 
[Angrily.']     Major   Tuokle,   I   decline  to  be 
hectored.     [Sits  in  armchair  L.]     If  it  comes 
to  that,  what  are  you 

TUCKLE. 

[Excitedly,  as  he  catcJies  sight  of  the  flowers 

on  table  R.]     Bindle,  what  the  devil  are  these  ? 

[Rushes  to  flowers  and  holds  them  up. 

Bindle. 
To  one  so  grossly  ignorant  of  the  first  princi- 
ples of  botany  as  yourself,  it  will  suffice  if  I  say 
that  they  are  roses.  [All  this  time  Tuckle  is 
tugging  at  something  inside  his  own  hat.]  To 
any  one  else  I  might  mention  that  they  are 
Marechal  Neils,  and  — 

Tuckle. 
[Suddenly  displaying  a  similar  bunch. ]     Con- 
found it,  sir,  look  at  that ! 

Bindle. 

[Lamely.]      Oh !     You    have    brought    her 
some,  too,  have  you  ? 

Tuckle. 
Yes ;  they  are  her  favorite  flowers. 


lo6  THE  MISSING  CARD 

BlNDLE. 
Thank  you,  sir,  but  I  am  aware  of  the  fact 
already. 

{Both  walk  angrily  tip  stage,  then  down. 
Finally. 

TUCKLE. 

Well,  Bindle,  don't  let  us  behave  like  chil- 
dren. Let  us  have  all  the  cards  on  the  table. 
/  have  come  to  ask  Mrs.  Millington  to  marry 
me.  [Sits  l. 

Bindle. 

So  have  I.  [Sits  R.  A  pause.  They  eye 
each  other.  T/w?i.]  Well,  Tuckle,  considering 
that  I  was  here  first,  I  think  it  would  be  more 
delicate  on  your  part  to  retire. 

Tuckle. 
I  like  that!     You  may   have  reached   the 
house  before  me,  but  I  started  first.     Recollect 
you  passed  me  on  the  road. 

Bindle. 

[In  conciliatory  fashion.]  There's  something 
in  what  you  say,  Tuckle.  But  in  this  case  I 
feel  that  it  would  be  positively  ungallant  to 
Mrs.  Millington  if  I  were  to  give  way. 

Tuckle. 
And  I  feel  that  it  would  be  infernal  rudeness 
to  the  dear  creature  if  I  retired. 


THE  MISSING  CARD  loy 

BlNDLE. 

Well,  what  is  to  be  done  ?    We  can't  propose 
simultaneously. 

Tuckle. 
Let  us  toss  for  it. 

Bindle. 
[Scathingly. .]     My   dear  friend,  we  are  not 
street-boys. 

Tuckle. 
[Facetiously.']     Well,  I'll  fight  a  duel  with 
you.     What's  it  to  be — pom-poms  or  brickbats  ? 

Bundle. 
Tuckle,  at  such  a  tense  moment  as  this,  friv- 
olity of  any  kind  grates  upon  me. 

Tuckle. 
Well,  dash  it !     Suggest  something  yourself. 

Bindle. 
As  a  solicitor,  I  am  in  favor  of  submitting 
the  whole  affair  to  arbitration. 

Tuckle. 
Who  is  going  to  arbitrate — the  parlor-maid  ? 

Bundle. 
My  dear  sir,  is  this  a  moment  for  light  bad- 
inage ?    I  was  about  to  suggest  a  confidential 
conference  with  the  Vicar. 


108  THE  MISSING  CARD 

TUCKLE. 
By  the  time  we  had  finished  confidentially 
conferring  with  the  Vicar,  the  afternoon  would 
be  over,  and  I — you — we  should  have  to  wind 
ourselves  up  afresh. 

BlNDLE. 

True! 

Tuckle. 
Besides,  my  boy,  the  Yicar  is  a  bachelor  him- 
self. 

Bindle. 

Well,  Tuckle,  though  constitutionally  averse 
to  games  of  hazard  in  any  form,  I  will  consent 
— if  you  persist  in  declining  to  withdraw — to 
play  you  a  game  of — er — draughts;  and  the 
winner  shall  propose  first. 

Tuckle. 
[Testily.']     My    dear    sir,   there's    no  time. 
She'll  be  here  in  five  minutes.     No ;  draughts 
are    excluded.     You    might    as   well  suggest 
croquet. 

Bindle. 
Well — picquet  ?     One  hand. 

Tuckle. 
I  don't  play.     Ecarte  ? 


THE  MISSING  CARD  109 

BlNDLE. 

I  am  unacquainted  with  the  game. 

TUCKLE. 

Well,  there  is  a  box  of  cards  over  here. 
{Rises  and  goes  E.  to  table^  I'll  tell  you  what. 
I'll  cut  you  through  the  pack  for  her  ! 

Bestdle. 

{Plaintively '.]  Tuckle,  the  card-playing  so- 
ciety in  which  I  move  is  doubtless  formal  and 
old-fashioned.  Consequently  I  find  this  jargon 
of  yours  just  a  little  obscure. 

Tuckle. 
I  like  that !  A  lawyer  complaining  of  ob- 
scure jargon !  Well,  I'll  explain.  We  lay  the 
pack  on  this  table,  and  go  on  drawing  in  turn 
until  one  of  us  draws  a  certain  card,  which  we 
will  fix  on  beforehand.  Re  stays  here  and  pro- 
poses to  Mrs.  Millington,  and  the  other  may  go 
home  to  bed  until  he's  sent  for. 

Bindle. 
Very  good.    What  is  the  winning  card  to  be  ? 

Tuckle. 
Anything  you  please.    What  do  you  suggest  ? 

Bindle. 
Ha — shall  we  say  the  Ace  of  Spades  ? 


IIO  THE  MISSING  CARD 

TUCKLE. 
What — old  Mossy  Face?    Confound  it,  man, 
haven't  you  a  spark  of  sentiment  about  you  ? 
The   winning    card    shall    be — the    Queen    of 
Hearts,  and  no  other ! 

Bindle. 
[  Warming  up.]     By  all  means,  my  boy.     A 
most  appropriate  choice. 

[  They  sit  opposite  sides  of  table.  Bindle 
on  k.  Tuckle  shuffles  the  pack  and 
d rates  the  first  card. 

Tuckle. 
Nine  of  clubs. 

Bindle. 
[Drawing  rapidly  7\     Knave  of  spades ! 

Tuckle. 
{Drawing  rapidly -.]     Four  of  hearts  ! 

Bindle. 
[Drawing  rapidly .]     Six  of  hearts ! 

Tuckle. 
{Drawing  rapidly '.]     King  of  spades ! 

Bindle. 

[Draioing  rapidly '.]     Ace  of  clubs  ! 


THE  MISSING   CARD  III 

TUCKLE. 

[Drawing  rapidly .]  Ah !  the  Queen  of — 
dash  it !  diamonds  ! 

Bindle. 

[Drawing  rapidly.]     Nine  of  spades  ! 

Tuckle. 

[Drawing  rapidly.]  King  of  hearts !  That's 
a  good  omen  for  me,  Bindle.  The  Queen  is 
usually  accompanied  by  the  King,  isn't  she  ? 

Bindle. 
[Drily. ~]  Or  the  knave !  You  will  recollect, 
Tuckle,  that  from  all  accounts  the  domestic 
relations  of  the  Heart  family  were  of  the  most 
unhappy  description.  [Drawing.]  Three  of 
diamonds  ! 

Tuckle. 
[Drawing.]     Ace  of  spades  !     Why  didn't  I 
agree  to  that  when  you  suggested  it  ? 

Bindle. 
[Drawing.]     Seven  of  hearts ! 

Tuckle. 
[Drawing.]     Six  of  clubs ! 

Bindle. 
[Drawing.]     Knave    of   diamonds!     I    say, 
Tuckle  ? 


112  THE  MISSING  CARD 

TUCKLE. 

[Drawing.]     Five  of  clubs !    Well  ? 

Bundle. 
Don't  you  think  you'd  better  withdraw  ?    I 
vjas  here  first,  you  know.     And  besides,  you 
would  probably  be  saving  yourself  a  most  pain- 
ful interview  and  a  severe  disappointment. 

Tuckle. 
Confound  your  impudence,  sir !   What  grounds 
have  you  for  making  such  an  assertion  ? 

BlNDLE. 

Well,  if  I  may  say  so,  Mrs.  Millington  is 
hardly  suited,  with  her  refined  and  sensitive 
nature,  to  a  man  of  your — ah — stamp.  [Draw- 
ing.]    Queen  of  spades ! 

Tuckle. 
And  what  the  blazes  do  you  mean  by  my 
"stamp,"  sir?    It's  not  a  six-and-eightpenny 
one,  anyhow  !     [Drawing.]     Five  of  hearts ! 

Bindle. 
Tuckle,  you  are  getting  excited.     Calm  your- 
self.    [Drawing.]     Hang    it    all,    the    two   of 
spades !     At  your  age,  a  sudden  rush  of  blood 
to  the  head 


THE  MISSING  CARD  113 

TUCKLE. 

What  has  my  age  got  to  do  with  you,  sir  ? 
If  it  comes  to  that,  how  old  are  you  ? 

Bindle. 

Ah — uin — fifty -eight ! 

Tuckle. 
And  you  want  to  marry  a  woman  on  the 
right  side  of  thirty !     Bindle,  I  am  ashamed  of 
you. 

Bindle. 
How  old  are  you  ? 

Tuckle. 
{Drawing^     Ten  of  spades ! 

Bindle. 
You  are  evading  the  question,  sir.     How  old 
are  you  ? 

Tuckle. 
Young  enough  to  be  your — your — nephew ! 

Bindle. 
How  old  are  you  ? 

Tuckle. 
Fifty-seven. 


114  THE  MISSING  CARD 

BlNDLE. 

Speaking  as  a  solicitor  with  a  large  family 
practice,  I  may  state  with  confidence  that  for  a 
man  of  fifty-eight  to  possess  a  nephew  of  fifty- 
seven  is  the  rule  rather  than  the  exception. 
[Drawing.]     Three  of  clubs  ! 

Tuckle. 
A  man  is  as  old  as  he  feels.  [Drawing.] 
King  of  diamonds !  I  feel  forty  now  ;  I  shall 
feel  thirty-five  when  I  set  eyes  on  Mrs.  Mill- 
ington;  I  shall  feel  thirty  when  I  clasp  her 
dear  little  hand 

BlNDLE. 

And  by  the  time  she  has  finished  telling  you 
exactly  what  she  thinks  of  you,  you'll  feel  about 
two-and-a-half  !     [Drawing.]     Ten  of  clubs  ! 

[Tuckle  gets  njp  and  stamps  about. 

Tuckle. 
You  miserable  old  mummy!     For  two  pins 
I'd  throw  you  out  of  the  window. 

BlNDLE. 

[Calmly.]  Threat  of  assault,  accompanied 
by  violent  language !  Two  pins  wouldn't  cover 
the  expense.  More  like  forty  shillings — or  a 
month.     Your  draw,  I  think. 


THE  MISSING  CARD  115 

TUCKLE. 

You  infatuated  old  ass  !  Do  you  think  she'll 
look  at  you  ? 

Bindle. 
[Complacently.']    She  has  frequently  achieved 
the  feat,  without  apparently  doing  herself  an 
injury. 

TUCKLE. 

Bah  !  You  miserable  pettifogging  attorney  ! 
You  orphan-robber !  You  widow-swindler ! 
You — you  charitable-organization-fund-embez- 
zler ! 

Bindle. 

[Roused  at  last.]  Sir,  your  words  are  action- 
able. [Mrs.  Millington  appears  in  the  door- 
way.]    I  shall  ring  the  bell,  and  we'll  have  a 

witness,   and    then   perhaps [Rises  and 

catches  sight  of  Mrs.  Millington.]     My  dear 
Mrs.  Millington ! 

Mrs.  Millington. 
[Coming  down  and  shaking  hands  with  both.] 
How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Bindle  ?  How  do  you  do, 
Major  ?  How  angelic  of  you  both  to  wait  till 
I  came  in.  I  was  lunching  at  the  Yicar's. 
[Rings  bell.]  His  sister  goes  away  to-morrow, 
you  know,  and  I  lingered  over  a  last  gossip 
with    her,    I'm   afraid.     Sit   down   and   make 


Il6  THE  MISSING  CARD 

yourselves  comfortable,  and  we'll  have  some 
tea.  {Looks  at  table.]  I  see  you  have  been 
amusing  yourselves  with  a  game  of  cards. 
Ecarte  ?  [Sits  l. 

BlNDLE. 

[  Who  has  recovered  his  equanimity.']  No, 
dear  lady.  It  is  a  new  game  which  my  friend 
Tuckle  has  been  teaching  me.     Most  amusing ! 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Oh !    How  do  you  play  it  ? 

Tuckle. 
"Well,  we  cut  through  the  pack  in  turn 

BlNDLE. 

And  the  man  who  draws  a  particular  card 

Tuckle. 
Takes  the  stake. 

Mrs.  Millington. 
You  wicked  gamblers !     I  suppose  it  was  a 
very  high  stake,  too. 

[Sophy  enters  from  conservatory. 

Tuckle. 
[Confusedly^]     Oh,  no.     A  mere  nothing. 

BlTSTDLE. 

A  trifle,  a  trifle ! 


THE  MISSING  CARD  117 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Tea,  please,  Sophy.     Have  you  picked  the 
flowers  for  the  dinner-table  yet  ? 

Sophy. 
I  am  doing  it  just  now,  ma'am.    The  basket 
and  scissors  are  still  in  the  conservatory. 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Well,  bring  in  the  tea,  and  I  will  get  the 
flowers  myself.  You  are  a  great  gardener,  I 
know,  Mr.  Bindle.  Will  you  come  and  help 
me?  It  will  bore  you,  Major,  so  you  shall 
have  a  cigarette  in  here.  We  shan't  be  five 
minutes.  [Rises.    So  does  Bindle. 

Tuckle. 
[To  himself .]     That  fellow  shall  not  be  left 
alone  with  her.     [Rises.']     My  dear  lady,  how 
cruel !     May  I  not  come  too  ? 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Certainly.     Come  along,  both  of  you. 

{They  go  out  to  the  conservatory.  As 
Mrs.  Millington  is  leaving  the 
room,  Sophy  enters  with  tea-tray. 

Sophy. 
[Quietly?]     Please'm ! 


Il8  THE  MISSING  CARD 

Mrs.  Millington. 
[Pausing.]     Yes  ? 

[Tuckle  and  Bindle  go  out 

Sophy. 
Could  I  speak  to  you  ? 

Mrs.  Millington. 
In  a  moment.  [Exit. 

[Sophy  puts  down  tea-things  on  table  L. 

Sophy. 
Such  goings  on  !     At  their  time  of  life,  too  ! 
A  pair  of  old  images  like  that!     Still,  half  a 
crown  from  Bindle  and  five  shillings  from  old 
Tuckle  doesn't  make  a  bad  afternoon's  work. 

[Enter  Mrs.  Millington,  laughing. 

Mrs.  Millington. 

[Looking  back  into  the  conservatory^  There, 
I've  left  them  quite  happy  for  the  moment. 
Mr.  Bindle  is  syringing  the  geraniums  and  wet- 
ting himself,  and  the  Major  is  smoking  green 
fly  off  the  roses  and  choking  himself.  [Claps 
her  hands  and  chuckles  softly  as  she  comes  clown.~] 
Well,  Sophy,  what  is  it  this  time  ?  Or  rather, 
wmo  is  it  ?     The  butcher  or  the  postman  ? 

[Sits  L. 
Sophy. 

[Simpering^  Oh,  it's  nothing  of  the  kind 
this  time,  ma'am.     Thanking  you  all  the  same. 


THE  MISSING  CARD  119 

You  are  always  so  kind.  But  I'm  engaged  to 
the  young  gentleman  at  the  grocer's  just  now. 
His  eyes  are  dark  gray 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Sophy,  did  you  bring  me  in  here  to  tell  me 
that  ? 

Sophy. 
{Recalling  herself  from  an  attitude  of  rap- 
ture.']    No,  ma'am.     It's  about  you. 

Mrs.  Millington. 
About  me  f 

Sophy. 
Yes,  ma'am.     I  wanted  to  say  that  you  ought 
to  be  careful  with  those  two  old  gentlemen. 

Mrs.  Millington. 
[Startled.]     What  on   earth   do  you  mean, 
Sophy  ? 

Sophy. 
Well,  ma'am,  Mr.  Bindle  called  this  afternoon, 
as  you  know.  There  was  rather  an  odd  look  in 
his  eye,  and  when  he  heard  you  weren't  at 
home  he  said  could  he  wait  ?  And  when  I  said 
yes,  of  course,  he — acted  rather  strangely. 
Then  the  Major  called,  and  he  acted  the  same, 
only  more  stranger  still,  ma'am.     I  put  them 


120  THE  MISSING  CARD 

both  in  here,  and  then  I  went  into  the  conserva- 
tory to  get  the  flowers  for  the  table.  Being  in 
there,  I  couldn't  help 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Sophy,  you  listened ! 

Sophy. 
[  With  great  dignity.]     I  could  not  help  hear- 
ing something  of  what  they  said.     They  were 
talking  about  you,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Sophy,  if  I  hadn't  known  you  since  you  were 
a  little  girl,  I  should  bundle  you  straight  out  of 
the  house.     I  can't  listen  to  this.  [Ibises. 

Sophy. 
You'll  be  sorry  all  your  life  if  you  don't, 
ma'am.     Those  two   old  creatures  have   both 
come  to — to 


Mrs.  Millington. 
[  Turnmg.]     To  what  ? 

Sophy. 
To  ask  you  to  marry  them. 

Mrs.  Millington. 
[Incredulously.]     What?    Those     two     old 
fossils  ? 


THE  MISSING   CARD  121 

Sophy. 
Yes'm.     And  they  were  each  so  vexed  when 
they  found  out  what  the  other  was  after.     And 
neither    would    go    away.     Mr.    Bindle,    he 
said 

Mrs.  Millitjgton. 
Sophy,  that  will  do.     I  can't  listen  to  this 
tattle.     As  for  you,  you  want  shaking.     I  think 
I  shall  ask  the  young  gentleman  at  the  grocer's 
to  do  it. 

Sophy. 
And  Major  Tuckle,  he  said 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Go  away ! 

Sophy. 
But  of  course  they  had  to  decide  which  was 
to  ask  you  first 

Mrs.  Millington. 
{Divided  between  anger  and  amusement^ 
Sophy,  will  you  go  ?  Sophy  turns  reluctantly^ 
Stop !  I  might  as  well  know  which  of  these 
dashing  suitors  I  must  avoid  most  carefully. 
Who  is  to  ask  me  first  ? 

Sophy. 
[Primly  7\     I  couldn't  say,  ma'am,  I'm  sure. 
By  that  time  I  had  realized  that  I  was  overhear- 


122  THE  MISSING  CARD 

ing  a  private  conversation,  so  of  course  I  just 
shut  my  ears  and  went  on  with  my  work. 
{Tearfully.']  I  should  be  the  last  to  eavesdrop, 
whatever  you  may  say,  ma'am.  I'm  not  that 
sort  of  girl,  although— although  I  do  want 
shaking !  [  Weeps  into  her  apron. 

Mrs.  Millington. 
[Smiling.]  Well,  I'm  sorry  if  I  hurt  your 
feelings,  Sophy.  But  it's  no  use  turning  on  the 
waterworks  with  me,  I've  known  you  too  long. 
Bottle  your  tears  up  for  the  young  gentleman 
from  the  grocer's.  Now  run  away,  and  I'll 
bring  Mr.  Bindle  and  Major  Tuckle  in  to  tea. 

Sophy. 
[Still  sobbing.']     I — I  did  happen  to  hear  one 
thing  more,  ma'am.     My  ears  opened  just  for  a 
moment  when  I  was  off  my  guard.     I  think 
they  were  settling  to  play  cards  for  you. 

Mrs.  Millington. 
The  old  wretches  !     [Buns  and  examines  the 
cards  on  tJie  table.]     I  wonder  what  form  the 
game  took  ?     Did  your  ears  happen  to  open  any 
more  after  that,  Sophy  ? 

Sophy. 
No,  ma'am — except — I  did  hear  something 
about  the  Queen  of  Hearts. 


THE  MISSING   CARD  1 23 

Mrs.  Millington. 

[Softly.]  O-o-oh  !  I  see  now.  So  that  was 
what  they  were  cutting  through  the  pack  for ! 
"The  man  who  draws  a  particular  card  takes 
the  stake."  Oh,  does  he  ?  The  old  villains  ! 
Ask  them  to  come  in,  Sophy.  [Exit  Sophy,  l.] 
The  Queen  of  Hearts,  indeed  !  [She  picks  up 
the  pack  and  ponders.]  Now — ah!  [She  picks 
out  a  card,  and,  chuckling  delightedly,  takes  it 
to  a  side  table  and  puts  it  into  an  envelope,  ~t^  / 
which  she  addresses.] 

[Reenter  Sophy,  giggling. 

Sophy. 

They  are  so  cross  with  each  other,  ma'am ! 

The  Major  has  blown  some  of  that  green  fly 

smoke  into  Mr.  Bindle's  eye,  and  Mr.  Bindle 

has  syringed  the  Major's  waistcoat.  [Exit. 

[Enter  Bindle  and  Tuckle,  glaring  at 

each  other.    Bindle  is  wiping  his  eye, 

and  Tuckle  is  patting  his  waistcoat 

with  his  handkerchief. 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Come  in,  both  of  you.     Everything  is  ready, 
except   the  kettle.     By  the  way  [pointing  to 
table],  did  you  finish  }?our  game  ? 

Tuckle. 
Er — no. 


124  THE  MISSING  CARD 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Well,  why  not  finish  it  off  before  tea  ? 

Bindle. 
It's  of  no  consequence,  dear  lady. 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Was  the  stake  as  insignificant  as  all  that  ? 

TUCKLE. 

[Bounding  up.]     By  Jove,   we  will  finish 
now !    Come  along,  Bindle. 

Bindle. 
By  all  means.     On  the  same  terms  ? 

[They  regard  each  other  fixedly  for  a 
moment,  then  Tuckle  nods  with  mean- 
ing, and  they  begin  drawing  cards 
again.  They  call  out  the  cards  quickly 
till  there  are  only  four  left.  Bindle 
sits  r.,  Tuckle  l.  of  table.  Mrs. 
Millington  stands  behind  it.  On 
cue  "Ace  of  diamonds." 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Only  four  left !    And  the  winning  card  hasn't 
turned  up  yet.     How  exciting ! 

[Bindle  and  Tuckle  pause.  Tuckle 
wipes  his  brow.  Bindle  surrepti- 
tiously gets  out  a  tabloid  and  eats  it. 


THE  MISSING  CARD  1 25 

BlKDLE. 

[Drawing.]    Eight  of  spades ! 

Tuckle. 
[Drawing.]     Queen  of — clubs ! 

BlNDLE. 

[Drawing.]  My  last  card.  [Despairingly.] 
Four  of  diamonds !  [Groans. 

Tuckle. 

[Triumphantly  turning  up  the  last  card.] 
And  here  at  last  is  the — confound  and  dash  it ! 
— the  three  of  spades !  Where  the  dev — ha — 
h'um !  [Coughs. 

Both. 
Where  is  the  Queen  of  Hearts  ? 

Mrs.  Millington. 
[Much  distressed.]     Oh,  was  it  the  Queen  of 
Hearts  you  were  after  ?    I  am  so  sorry.    I  took 
it  out  of  the  pack  just  now.     I — I  wanted  it. 

Both. 
What  on  earth  for  ? 

Mrs.  Millhntgton. 

[Kneeling  on  floor,  with  her  elbows  on  the 
table  ;  rather  confusedly '.]  Well,  you  are  both 
such  dear  old  friends  of  mine  that  I  will  tell 


126  THE  MISSING  CARD 

you.    You  shall  be  the  first  to — to  know.    [Both 
start.]     To-day  I  had  a  talk  with  the  Vicar. 

Both. 

Ah! 

Mrs.  Milllngton. 
Curiously  enough,  we  were  discussing  card 
games.  He  said  he  used  to  be  a  constant  whist- 
player  at  the  University,  but  now  he  thought  it 
better  not  to  play  at  all,  although  he  loved  it. 
It  gave  him  a  clear  conscience,  he  said,  when 
he  preached  against  gambling.  Wasn't  it  noble 
of  him  ?  [Both  mumble  something  inarticulate.] 
Then  he  asked  me  to  marry  him  ! 

[A    horrified  gasp  from   BiNDLE   and 
Tuckle. 

BiNDLE. 

\In  a  strained  voice.]     I  fail  to  see  the  con- 
nection between  card  games  and  a  proposal. 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Ah  !  he  did  it  so  beautifully.     [Baptly.]    He 
asked  me  to  be  his  Queen  of  Hearts ! 

Tuckle. 


The  blackguard  ! 

BiNDLE 

The  unprincipled  rascal ! 


THE  MISSING  CARD  12/ 

TUCKLE. 
Besides,  he's  a  mere  boy. 

Bindle. 

An  irresponsible  infant ! 

Tuckle. 
Barely  thirty -six ! 

Bindle. 
Thirty-five,  at  the  outside  ! 

Mrs.  Millington. 

[  Who  appears  not  to  have  heard.']     Wasn't  it 
clever  of  him  to  work  it  in  that  way  ? 

Both. 

Did  you  accept  him  ? 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Well,  dear  friends,  I  asked  for  a  little  time 
to  think  it  over.  But  now  my  mind  is  made 
up.  I  am  so  happy !  [She  rises  and  goes  to 
table  R.,  takes  the  card  and  envelope,  and  comes 
down.  Holds  up  card.]  The  Queen  of  Hearts ! 
There  is  his  answer,  the  dear  fellow !  [Rings 
bell,  and  fastens  up  envelope.  Bindle  and 
Tuckle  sit  transfixed.  Enter  Sophy.]  Sophy, 
tell  John  to  ride  over  with  this  to  the  Vicarage 
at  once.     [Exit  Sophy.     Mrs.  Millington 


128  THE  MISSING  CARD 

comes  doion.]     Well,  haven't  you  two  anything 
to  say  to  me  ? 

[There  is  a  pause.  Then  Tuckle  rises 
resolutely  and  takes  her  hand. 

Tuckle. 
Mrs.  Millington,  will  you  accept  the  heart- 
iest congratulations  of — an  old  fogy  ? 

[Kicks  Bindle  gently  under  the  table. 

BlNDLE. 

[Not  to  be  outdone  /  taking  her  oilier  ha?id.~\ 
Mrs.  Millington,  will  you  accept  the  very  kind- 
est wishes  of  one  who  has  always  regarded  you 
as — a  daughter  ? 

[They  each  kiss  a  hand  of  hers. 

Mrs.  Millington. 

[  Quite  overcome^  Oh,  thank  you  so  much ! 
You  are  nice ! 

[Bindle  and  Tuckle  go  R.  and  get 
their  hats,  etc.  Each  surreptitiously 
stuffs  his  roses  inside  his  hat.  Mrs. 
Millington  goes  down  l. 

Tuckle. 
Now  we  must  be  off,  Bindle. 

Bindle. 
Quite  right.    Good-afternoon,  dear  Mrs.  Mill- 
ington. [Shaking  hands. 


THE  MISSING  CARD  1 29 

Mrs.  Millington. 
But  surely  you  will  stay  to  tea  ? 

Tuckle. 
[Shaking    hands.]     I'm    afraid    not,    thank 
you.     Bindle  and  I  have  a  call  to  pay. 

Mrs.  Millington. 
Another  ? 

Bindle. 
Yes.     We  are  going  to  the  Yicarage  to  offer 
our  felicitations    to — er — the  future  King  of 
Hearts ! 

Tuckle. 
[Explosively,  taking  Bindle's  arm  and  going 
up.]    No— dash  it  all ! — the  knave !     Come  on, 
Bindle ! 

[They  pause  in  the  doorway,  and  look 
back  at  Mrs.  Millington,  who  is 
facing  the  audience. 

Tuckle. 
Bindle,  we've  been  a  pair  of  old  fools. 

Bindle. 
Yes.     But   we  drew   back  in  time.     She'll 
never  know  now. 


I30  THE  MISSING  CARD 

TUCKLE. 
Yes,  that's  a  comfort.     She'll  never  know! 
Come  on,  Nick ! 

Bindle. 
All  right,  Jack.        {They  go  out  arm  in  arm. 

Mrs.  Millington. 
{Turning  impulsively,  and  holding  out  her 
hands  to  the  empty  doorway.]     You  old  pets! 


CURTAIN 


YB  31480 


S 


3s-S*tf&'' 


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